


But She Was the Sky

by Chash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-10-10 16:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10442505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: New year, new tumblr fic collection. Yes, I know it's March. Mostly Bellarke, mostly modern AUs.





	1. Sex pollen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with most sex pollen fics, this has some dub-con elements. Mainly, Bellamy is under the influence of a mysterious plant and needs to get laid. Also, sex, obviously.

"From an evolutionary standpoint, this makes _no_ sense," Clarke mutters.

Bellamy is on his back on his bed with one arm over his face, breathing in and out, trying to focus on anything but his dick. He assumes Clarke is also trying not to focus on his dick, which is why she's talking about the logic behind it. The less everyone is thinking about his dick, the better.

"Why does a plant care if you're getting laid?" she goes on.

"I don't think it cares about me personally."

"You know what I mean. What's the plant getting out of this?"

"The satisfaction of a job well done." He huffs. He's _so fucking hard_. "Did you have a plan or are you just here to commiserate? I was just going to quarantine myself until it wore off."

There's a pause, and he thinks about opening his eyes, but then he'd see _Clarke_. And just the thought of Clarke is overwhelming right now, let alone the sight of her. 

As stupid decisions in his life go, this one shouldn't have been a big deal. He was out gathering herbs, and he's not _great_ with herbs, but Clarke draws him what he's looking for, and he generally finds it in the end. And he found it this time too, he just stumbled through another plant first, and got covered in some weird--plant shit. Pollen of some kind. And he started feeling hot and gross and assumed he was allergic to it, so he went back to camp, took a shower, and when he still wasn't feeling better, went to consult Clarke, because she'd be pissed if he didn't mention it.

It was sheer luck that Luna was around, and that when he described the plant, she recognized it.

It was the opposite of luck that she said it would cause _intense, painful arousal_ , and if he didn't get laid in a few hours, he'd maybe die. He's not totally clear on the logistics of that, but apparently uncontrollable lust is supposed to get involved at some point, and Luna seemed to think he needed to _fuck_ someone, not just jerk off, which--Clarke might have had a point about evolutionary necessity here. Why the fuck does a radioactive plant care if he ejaculates _in_ someone? That doesn't seem like any of his business.

"Clarke?" he prompts. Part of him wonders if she left, but--he thinks he'd know if she did. Even with his eyes closed, he feels like he knows exactly where he is. He can still smell her, which feels fucking _creepy_ , but he's blaming the plant. It's absolutely the plant's fault. Nothing to do with Clarke.

"It's not going to _wear off_ ," she says, on a huff. "That's not how it works. You need to get laid."

"Yeah, I heard. How's the plant going to know if I get laid? Is it keeping tabs on me?"

"I asked Luna, she said it was--I don't know. Something about the interaction with brain chemistry. But you pretty clearly need _something_."

He cracks one eye open to look at her, and it's such a fucking bad idea. She's exactly where he thought she was, leaning against the desk in his room, looking warm and soft and beautiful.

And also stressed and worried, but that's to be expected. And his brain cares a lot less about that than it cares about how her breasts look in that top.

 _Fuck_. She needs to get the fuck out of here.

"I've got it," he says, which is a lie.

"You'd rather die than get laid?"

"I'm not going to die. I feel fine."

She crosses her arms in a very distracting way. " _Bellamy_. Luna told me how this was going to go. She's the expert. And it's obviously--you're a mess."

"Thanks."

"Will you just have sex with me already?"

He shoots up, sitting on his bed and staring at her, which is a terrible idea, because he shouldn't _look at her_. All he wants to do is bend her over the desk and-- 

"What?" he asks.

"What?"

He swallows hard. "Why would I have sex with you?"

She rolls her eyes. "So you don't _die_."

It's the obvious answer, but it makes his stomach sink. "No."

"No?"

"I'm not going to ask you to--I can take care of it."

"You _can't_. How many times do I have to tell you--"

"I can find someone. I don't need you managing my sex life, Clarke."

He can see her throat bob when she swallows, and he has to close his eyes again. He can still see her behind his eyelids, can just imagine how her throat would look when he kissed her, the long line of it as he--

"Seriously?"

"What?"

"Look, I know I'm not your first choice, for this, but I'm the _best_ choice. If you'd actually been finding someone while I was talking to Luna, you wouldn't have to, but you didn't, so you're stuck with me."

He opens his eyes again. The look in her eyes is just what he expected, all stubborn annoyance, the familiar exasperation that she thinks she's right and someone isn't listening to her. But--there's something else too, he thinks.

Or maybe he's just really, really fucking hoping.

And then she tugs her shirt off, and there's all this _skin_. Her breasts are spilling out of her bra, and there's still this strange nervousness in her eyes, and it's just--fuck, it's so fucked up.

Her hands go behind her back, going for the clasp of the bra, and he manages, " _Clarke_."

"You're supposed to be overcome with lust," she says, and rubs her face. "Fuck. Don't tell me you're _that_ unattracted to me. Just lie back and think of--"

He crosses the room in three steps and kisses her. Which is one of those things he's pretty sure you don't _have_ to do, when you're under the influence of weird plant shit. He doesn't want to kiss her any more than usual. He just wants to fuck her more than usual, and he really needs her to know how much he always wants all this stuff, right now.

Her mouth falls open on a gasp, which he takes advantage of, and he lifts her up onto the desk, sliding between her open legs. She wraps them around his waist, and the first press of his dick makes them both moan. The kiss breaks and they're suddenly staring at each other, wide-eyed. Her pupils are huge and dark, and when he wets his lips, she tracks the movement.

"That really wasn't the issue," he says, voice coming up rough, and he kisses her again, hard and frantic, and her fingers tangle in his hair. "You don't have to do this if you don't want to," he adds. "I can find someone else. But just if you don't want to. You're absolutely my first fucking choice."

Her laugh is a little shaky, and when she swallows again, he lets his mouth go down to her throat. He's going to lose his ability to think in about ten seconds; he's already distracted imagining being inside her, how she's going to _feel_. "I want to," she says, arching up against him, deliberate. "Can we finish this conversation when I'm sure you're not going to die of not getting laid?"

"Yeah," he manages, and drops his mouth down to her shoulder, tasting the sweat there. His entire brain is full of her, every nerve awake and alight with the knowledge of _Clarke_. Clarke in his arms, Clarke moaning at the slight scrape of his teeth, Clarke saying his name over and over, breathless and needy and--

" _Bellamy_."

He looks up, frowning a little. He'd gotten down to her breast, and he was just about to push her bra aside so he could really explore.

Her laugh is shaky. "Not that I'm not--this is great, but you need to _fuck me_. I'm never going to forgive you if you're too busy with foreplay and die. You can touch me as much as you want after."

While she's talking, he starts kissing her neck again, can't bear to stop, but he is actually paying attention to the conversation, mostly because it's about him getting to fuck her, and, god, he wants that. "Where do you want me?" he asks, biting down on her shoulder. "In the bed, or just--fuck, right here?"

"Right here," she says. Her fingers are fumbling with the fly of his pants. "As soon as possible, seriously."

"Don't worry," he assures her, helping her, shoving down pants and boxers all at once in his desperation to be naked and closer. "I'm not going to die without fucking you."

Her eyes slide down to his dick like she can't quite help it, and then her fingers are wrapping around him, testing and gentle and still enough to make him moan.

"This doesn't work if you're still wearing clothes," he murmurs, and he can hear her swallow.

"Yeah." She pushes his chest gently, just enough that she can slide off the desk, and then she's getting her own pants off, and her bra, and she's naked, and gorgeous, and just-- _Clarke_.

"I can touch you as much as I want after?" he asks, eyes roving over her body.

Her neck colors a little. "Yeah."

"Cool. Then bed," he says, tugging off his own shirt just to be fair and tugging her back.

"Bellamy--"

"I know, I know. Now." He pushes her back onto the bed, lets himself kiss her again as he tests her with his fingers. She _is_ wet, and she whimpers when he rubs her clit, and he really can't wait either, not when she's so warm and responsive under him, and he still can't believe he'll _actually_ die if he doesn't do this, but it kind of feels that way.

"Fuck, I love you," he murmurs, and slides inside her.

For a second, it's like his entire brain goes white, and then the desperation of whatever happened really sets in. He's never needed to come so much in his _life_ , and that includes the horrific teenage years where he felt like he was constantly erect and desperate. He needs this like he's never needed anything else, and he barely has the presence of mind to ask, "Good?" and hear her affirmative response before he's thrusting, hard and hot and desperate. Clarke gasps and arches against him, her mouth dropping open, and he manages to get his hand under her ass, changing his angle slightly until she's begging too.

He's pretty sure she doesn't come before he does, which hasn't been a problem for him for a long time, but he figures there are some extenuating circumstances. And she _did_ want him to come as soon as possible.

The orgasm drains pretty much all the energy out of him, and he slumps half on top of her, feeling guilty with the small part of his brain that can still process emotions. He presses his lips against her shoulder, nuzzling in close.

"I owe you one," he murmurs. He's already half asleep, so he just wraps around her, holds her close. "As soon as I wake up, okay?"

Her laugh is soft, and her fingers tangle in his hair. "Don't worry about it."

When he wakes up, it's dark, and he has a slight headache, like he gets when he hasn't had enough water. The memories of the day are a little fuzzy, and he has no idea what woke him until he sees Clarke sitting on the edge of the bed, tugging on her shirt.

"Hey," he says, and she freezes.

"Sorry," she says. "I was trying not to wake you up."

"What time is it?"

"I don't know. Late? I should--I should get back." There's a pause, and she can see her squaring her shoulders. "Listen, I'm sorry if I--if I overstepped. I don't know what was going on for you, but Luna said it was kind of a lot, and it's hard to think straight, and I hope I didn't--"

His memories aren't so hazy that he doesn't remember the basics of what he said, or what he did, so he pushes himself up, drags himself over to sit next to her.

"I didn't say anything I didn't mean, Clarke."

She worries her lip. "You said you loved me."

"Yeah," he agrees. "And that I'd take care of you as soon as we woke up, so--" He clears his throat. "Your call. You don't have to leave." After what feels like a thousand years, she turns to look at him, and he gives her a crooked smile. "Seriously, I can do a lot better. Don't judge me on that. I was basically roofied."

It's the wrong thing to say. "Trust me, I know."

He wets his lips, slides closer. He's still naked, and she's still mostly naked, and he's pretty sure all he has to do is not fuck up the phrasing on this and she'll come back to bed.

"I love you," he settles on. "That wasn't--I probably wouldn't have said it, yeah. But I wanted to. I've been wanting to." He tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "Come back to bed," he murmurs. "Please."

Instead, she surges forward and kisses him again, and he tugs her into his lap, sliding his hands up her back, kissing back with all the warmth and affection and love he can, until she's melting into him. He threads his hands in her hair, nips her bottom lip, wants to learn every sound she'll ever make.

"I love you too," she says, dropping her forehead onto his shoulder. "So--"

He lies back, pulling her on top of him, grinning. "So, you saved my life, and you didn't even get off."

"I had fun," she says, but there's a smile creeping onto her face.

"But I owe you, right?"

He slides his hand down between her legs, feels a soft thrill when he realizes she's _still_ wet, or already wet again, and when she buries her her face against his neck, he grins.

"Yeah," he confirms, fingers working her clit as she makes soft, desperate sounds. "I really fucking owe you."

But he's good for it.


	2. Bellamy and Clarke being virgins and losing their virginity with each other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> High school AU, Bellamy and Clarke are seniors, so if seventeen/eighteen year olds having sex is not your thing, read no further.

It's sixth period on a Friday when Clarke finds Bellamy and Miller in the library, reading a WikiHow article about kissing. They're bent over one of the school computers, intently studying a group of photos of a generic white couple making out with way more concentration than Clarke really feels it warrants.

She leans over Bellamy's shoulder and, when they don't notice her, says, "Hi."

They both jump, and Bellamy fumbles with the mouse and switches to another tab, which seems to just be the home page of ESPN.com. He and Miller probably aren't the _least_ sports aware people in the world, but that's because Clarke assumes there are remote villages out there with no concept of what football is, and they've got them beat. They come to her soccer games out of general loyalty, but Bellamy's understanding of the game hasn't progressed beyond not being able to use his hands, and Miller just always wants everyone to head the ball all the time. So, yeah. They're not fooling anyone.

Bellamy clears his throat. "Hi."

"Doing some research?"

"Sports," he agrees. He glances at Miller, like he's hoping for some help, but Miller just snorts, stands, and stretches.

"Yeah, it was illuminating. I have English homework. Have fun talking your way out of this one."

Clarke takes the seat Miller vacated, settling in next to Bellamy with raised eyebrows.

"What," he says, flat.

"How to kiss?" she asks.

She can see him debating with himself, and then he huffs and switches back to the WikiHow tab. "It's for Miller."

"Uh huh."

"He finally made a move on Monty, which, Jesus, fucking took long enough. But now he's nervous about the next move instead. It's just one thing after another, seriously."

"Because you're so competent with feelings," she teases.

"I'm great with feelings. I don't have time for them. It's really easy."

Clarke leans her head on his shoulder, and he leans back into it. Octavia's father took off their freshman year, and it's been bad since then, but Bellamy's mother got sick, and that made it even worse. She can still work, but money just gets tighter and tighter. "Yeah, that sounds really healthy." She pauses, deliberate, and then pokes him. "Seriously, you don't know how to _kiss_?"

"Like you're an expert."

She hasn't ever thought about it much, but it always seems fairly straightforward. She doesn't feel _bad_ at kissing. She enjoys it, and it seems to go well for her.

"I'm good at kissing," she says, and it comes out defensive.

"Uh huh."

"I _am_."

Bellamy drums his fingers on the table, like he's thinking something over. And then he says, deliberate, "Yeah? Prove it."

"Prove it?"

"Yeah. If you're so good at kissing, you can show me how it's done."

Clarke would be lying if she said she'd never thought about kissing Bellamy. He's her best friend, sure, but he's also really attractive, and has a great smile, and, well, why _wouldn't_ she want to kiss her best friend? He wouldn't be her best friend if she didn't like him. 

"You want to make out?" she asks. She thinks she sounds academically curious, not personally interested. She's doing her best. "Do you have a date coming up too?"

He snorts. "Yeah, with my five part-time jobs. I'm just curious here. It's not like _you've_ got someone to make out with either. So how do you know you're any good?"

"Why do you think I'm not?"

He smirks. "Well, the fact that you don't want to is--"

"You want to make out in the _school library_?" 

"Okay, yeah, no." He rubs the back of his neck, looking embarrassed, and Clarke's heart flips. "I figured we'd, uh. Do it later."

She feels a ridiculous smile growing on her face. "You want to make out with me."

"Do you know how long it's been?" he asks. "Seriously, I haven't gotten any since Bryan Farmer's end of school party sophomore year."

"How much did you get there?" she asks.

"I made out with Roma in his pool house," he says. "Fuck, I like kissing, okay?"

"So shouldn't you ask someone you're sure is good at it?" she teases.

He rolls his eyes. "No, I should ask someone who's going to give me honest feedback about my skills. And who might actually do it. And Miller's taken now, so--"

"Did you have a time in mind?" she asks, and relief washes over his face.

Bellamy totally wants to make out with her. It's the best thing ever.

"O's, uh, going to a sleepover? And my mom's working later than I am for once, so, uh--yeah. If you want to come over, let me know."

"When are you done with work?" she asks, and he grins.

*

Clarke was, theoretically, going to a party tonight, but that was mostly because Bellamy was working. He's always working, and she gets it, obviously. When he's not working, he has homework, and school is actually kind of a relief for him, because he doesn't have any other responsibilities. Just classes.

So she works around his schedule, and she'll cancel on basically anyone with no warning if she can hang out with Bellamy instead. Which, luckily everyone gets, because everyone knows Bellamy is her favorite and his schedule is a nightmare.

And now he wants her to come over. To _make out_.

It's kind of unbelievably awesome.

She tells her mom she's going to the party, as planned, but she goes to the coffee shop instead and hangs out until he's done. Bellamy's the only one staying all the way to close, so Clarke helps him clean up and he gives her a ride back to his apartment.

And then it's awkward.

"We, uh," Bellamy tries. He rubs the back of his neck. "If you don't want to, we don't have to--"

Clarke pulls him down to kiss him, and it's--honestly, it's awful. He's not expecting it, and they hit their noses together, and then their teeth, and he laughs.

"Wow, you suck at this."

"You know what--" Clarke starts, and it's his turn to kiss her. With both of them expecting it and on the same page, it's a lot smoother, Bellamy's lips actually catching hers, his hand sliding into her hair, cradling her gently, and Clarke's stupid heart flips over. Bellamy smells like coffee and Old Spice, familiar and enticing all at once, and he's firm and warm and perfect. When Clarke slides her tongue against his lips, he opens for her, and it feels _so good_.

Until he pulls back.

"Was that--"

He's smiling, face a little flushed. "You're good. Just--we should probably go to my room. In case, uh--I don't think anyone's coming home anytime soon, but--"

"Yeah. Your room's good."

Once they're in there, there's another awkward moment, though, as Bellamy shifts, clearly nervous. Clarke is a little nervous too, because she's never actually done _this_. Even leaving aside the Bellamy part, when she makes out with people, it's usually at parties, in semi-public, the kind of place where everyone else is doing it and it doesn't have any chance of going beyond kissing.

Now they're alone in Bellamy's bedroom, and all of her nerves are on high alert, and he's watching her with dark eyes behind his glasses, looking like he's thinking the same thing she is.

She sits down on the edge of the bed, bouncing a little, and offers him a smile.

"What base?"

"What?" he asks, frowning.

"What base have you gotten to?"

"That one," he says. "Making out. That's first, right?"

"Yeah."

"That's, uh--yeah. That's as far as I've gotten." He wets his lips. "You?"

"Second? Um, some groping. Over bra."

He grins. "See, I knew you were better at this."

"Well, you don't have breasts for me to grope, so it's not really very helpful."

He sits down next to her, looking awkward. Clarke met Bellamy four years ago, freshman year of high school, and he was a lot shorter and scrawnier then. It was a little surprising when they came back for junior year and he was suddenly _muscular_ , and all of his features seemed to come together in perfect harmony.

He's _so_ hot. Clarke has had plenty of girls and a couple guys press her for more details about him, investigating if he's single and open to relationships, and Clarke's take on it has always basically been that he would be, if he wasn't so busy.

She might have hoped he wouldn't ever have time for any of them.

"So, uh--" he says. "Do I just kiss you again?"

"What do you want?" she asks, and when he winces, she leans in and presses her lips against his, soft and quick, so he won't be nervous. "Like--what base?"

"What base?" he repeats.

"If we're getting feedback, we might as well get good feedback, right? And--a lot of feedback." She wets her lips. "As much as we can get."

He exhales, shaky. "Yeah. We could get, um--as much as you want."

It's so _stupid_ , and she has to laugh, dropping her forehead onto his shoulder. "Okay, I want to get laid, okay? It sounds fun, and if we do it together it's going to be--good."

"Based on what?"

"Sorry, was the kissing bad for you?"

"No," he admits.

"And if it's bad, I'll just tell you. I let Monroe drool all over my mouth in seven minutes in heaven because I was too embarrassed to tell her it wasn't working for me. I wouldn't have that problem with you."

He laughs. "So, you want to fuck me."

"If you want. We can just make out, if--"

This time, he's the one who leans in for a kiss, his mouth warm on hers, and Clarke presses closer automatically. She _likes_ kissing, and she never gets to do it enough, and she can't ever get enough of Bellamy.

"Let's see how it goes, okay?" he says. "I could suck so much you don't want me to--"

"I'm not worried." She puts her hand on his chest, pushes him back onto the bed, and he goes easily, willingly, smiling up at her with his hair a messy tangle on the sheets. She takes a second to take his glasses and put them on the nightstand, and then she's leaning over him for another long kiss. When his arms come up around her back, fingers pushing up the hem of her shirt to dance over her back, she figures they're just going for it, and she slides fully on top of him, his thigh between her legs, one of his hands sliding down to grope her ass.

"Okay?" he asks, and she laughs.

"It was my idea. Are _you_ okay?"

"Never better. Can I, uh--" He tugs on her shirt and she pulls back to pull it off, and his eyes rove over her, all appreciation. "Wow."

"It's not that different from when I'm wearing a bathing suit."

"That's hot too."

She flushes with pride, slides her own hands under his shirt. "Your turn."

He leans up to get his off, and Clarke takes a second herself to appreciate all that perfect skin and muscle. Her fingers trail up his stomach to his pecs, and he laughs.

"Ticklish?" she asks.

"No, just--I can't believe we're doing this."

"You want to stop?" she offers, and he rolls them over so he's on top of her, kissing her again long and wet and deep. 

"No way. Do you?"

She arches off the bed to get her bra off, tossing it aside, and Bellamy swears under his breath.

"This is officially the farthest I've ever gone with anyone," she says, in case he forgot.

"Me too. _Fuck_ ," he adds. "This is so much better than porn." She can see his throat bob on a swallow. "Can I, uh--"

"I'm not sure _better than porn_ is a compliment for everyone. But thanks. And I don't know what you're asking."

"I really want to play with your boobs."

"Yeah, go ahead. Whatever you want."

Bellamy has these huge, perfect hands, and Clarke will honestly take any excuse to hold them under normal circumstances. Having them on her breasts is better than she ever imagined, and when his thumb flicks over her nipple, she moans out loud.

"Good?" he asks, and she pulls him back down for more kissing, hot and messy, while his hands track over her bare skin, testing where she likes to be touched most.

Which is _everywhere_.

"So good," she gasps, belatedly. "Bellamy, fuck."

"I can't believe just playing with your boobs actually does it for you," he teases. "I'm just doing what I want."

"Yeah, keep doing it."

He nuzzles the hollow of her neck, and then he moves his mouth lower, kissing the swell of her breast and then wrapping his lips around her nipple, sucking gently, and Clarke arches up, desperate for friction. His thigh is hard against her, but it's not nearly _enough_.

"Do you have condoms?" she asks.

"Yeah. Do you, uh--are we ready for condoms? Should I be--" He wets his lips. "I thought I needed to get you ready first."

"Is that what WikiHow told you to do?"

"No, that was from porn. They always do a lot."

She laughs, tugs him up to kiss him again. "We can do a lot. I just--I want to do everything, so I wanted to make sure we could."

He smiles. "Yeah, me and Miller got condoms a few weeks ago. Just to be--optimistic."

"Cool." She wets her lips. "Want to be naked?"

"Yeah."

He rolls off her, and they both kick off their jeans and underwear, and then take a second to just look.

"It really is different when it's not porn," she observes. She's definitely staring at his dick, but she figures it's allowed. He's hard and long and thick, and it's kind of nice. If anyone had asked, Clarke would have said she had no opinion on Bellamy's penis, but she definitely thought it would be large, and she would have been disappointed if it wasn't.

She had a lot of things she wanted out of this, given she's been telling herself she never thought about it.

"Just tell me if you change your mind," he says. "If it's--"

She pushes him back onto the bed and slides on top of him, pressing herself against his leg and moaning, shocked at how _good_ it feels. He presses back and she shudders, burying her face against his neck. She must be bright red, because she's _so wet_ , it's embarrassing, but it feels too good for her to want to move away.

"Sorry," she says, and he laughs and kisses her hair.

"Jesus, what for?"

"It's--"

"I'm hard, you're wet, it's awesome." He gives her ass a squeeze, pulling her closer in, and her hips roll against him without real input from her brain, and then again, with input, because _fuck_. "Yeah," he says, voice rough. "You think you can get off like this?"

"Probably, yeah." She kisses his jaw. "You want me to?"

"This is the best thing that's ever happened to me, so, yeah." He catches her mouth for another kiss, and Clarke rolls her hips again, trying to ignore the self-consciousness that comes from knowing she's basically humping his leg, because he's swearing under his mouth between kisses, and it feels _so good_. She can't even keep up the kissing, because it's too much. In no time she's shaking, whining, desperate, and Bellamy's murmuring against her hair, telling her how hot she is and how much he wants her to come.

When she does, she slumps against him, laughing breathlessly, and he tugs her closer.

"So, I don't have to do anything, huh?" he teases. "That's what I'm learning."

"You're really hot," she says. "And I love your hands, so--fuck. That was good. You were good." She kisses his shoulder. "And you still need to fuck me."

"Yeah?"

She worries her lip, but lets her hand slide down to wrap around his dick. She was going to say more, but the feel of him under his fingers, the unfamiliar feeling of the hard skin, is completely distracting. She gives an experimental tug, and Bellamy lets out a strangled noise.

"Fuck, Clarke."

"Should I stop?"

"If you want me to make it to fucking you, yeah," he teases, and she lets go immediately. He laughs again, and kisses her. "You want another already?"

"I want you," she says, and it feels like too much, but--god, she really does. She never wants to stop.

Bellamy exhales, pushes her off him gently. "Awesome. Let me get a condom."

She stretches out on the bed, settling onto his sheets. Bellamy gets a condom out of his wallet and then stares for a second, slack-jawed. It's weird, being naked in front of someone, but--he's clearly into it. And he's going to fuck her.

It's the best kind of surreal.

He comes back to the bed and leans over to kiss her again, slow and warm, and Clarke feels like she's melting.

Which is fine, but what she really wants is to know what he feels like inside her.

"Bellamy," she murmurs. "Come on. Fuck me."

"Yeah." He rests his forehead on hers, and then rolls off her so he can put all his attention on rolling the condom on. "Are you, uh--I know you haven't done this with anyone else, but--on your own?"

"I've got a vibrator, yeah."

"So you like, uh--getting fucked?"

"Yeah."

"Good." He lets out another shaky breath, finds some lube and slicks himself off. "Do you want--"

"I want you to fuck me. Just do it."

"Awesome."

She spreads her legs and he settles between them, lining himself up carefully and then pushing in. All his focus is on her face, alert for any small signs of distress, and Clarke has to smile. It does hurt a little, the first push of him. Her vibrator is pretty small, and it's smoother, and it's not connected to her best friend, so it _is_ really different. But after the first pinch of pain, he slides in easily, his breath catching on the feeling, and they both have to pause and adjust to the feeling.

"Fuck," he mutters. "Are you--can I--"

"I'm good," she says. "Go ahead."

He gives his hips an experimental roll, and they both groan, and Clarke tangles her hand in his hair and pulls him down for a kiss, which apparently is all the reassurance he needs to just--go for it. They have to adjust a few times, finding the right angle, but suddenly it clicks, and he's hitting her perfectly on every stroke, driving her wild, and it's like nothing she's ever experienced, not even close. It's not just the feel of him inside her, it's his skin pressed against hers, the way they're sharing breath as they try to kiss, the way his hair is falling on her forehead and his mouth is brushing her lips, her jaw, everywhere.

She fumbles to get her clit herself, and she doesn't quite come before he does, but she does just after, when he's still groaning against her neck and thrusting through the aftershocks, and it's almost too much as she orgasms, the best kind of sensory overload. 

For a second, there's a pause, and then they're kissing again, wet and hot and desperate, and Clarke's laughing too, giddy with it.

"Wow."

"Yeah?" he teases.

"Yeah. You could definitely write a WikiHow article."

"How to hook up with your best friend," he says, and freezes. "Uh--you know, um. Just hook up. I'm not--I didn't mean I thought--"

It's almost enough to ruin her good mood, but--he sounds so nervous, like he thinks he fucked up.

"That seems like kind of a waste," she points out. "Just hooking up and calling it quits. Then we'd have to stop doing this."

He pulls back to look at her, eyes searching her face. She offers him a smile, and his returning grin is _blinding_. "You don't want to stop doing this?"

"No." And then, because that's not all she wants, she tangles her hand in her hair and pulls him in for another kiss. "Boyfriend," she says. "I want a boyfriend."

"I've never been anyone's boyfriend before. You think there's a WikiHow article I can consult? To make sure I don't fuck it up."

Clarke snuggles in close, feeling warm and loose and relaxed. Bellamy's arm comes up around her, holding her close, and she lets out a contented sigh. She has to go home in an hour or two, but they've got a little while for the afterglow. "I think you'll be fine."

"You can always tell me if I'm doing it wrong. Give me some pointers." 

"I haven't been a girlfriend either. So--we can figure it out together, right?"

"Yeah," he agrees. "Can't wait."


	3. 407 coda/science island sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these first few stories are all from me asking for smut prompts on tumblr, which is why they are all porn, btw

Monty's the one who makes him talk to Clarke. Or, rather, Clarke through Monty. He finds Bellamy in his office and says, "Clarke wants to talk to you."

"I'm busy."

"She said if you wouldn't come, I should get the guard to escort you."

He makes a face. "What did you tell her?"

"I just asked her how you were doing. I thought you'd be talking to her. I'm worried, Bellamy. We're all worried."

"And now Clarke's worried," he says, scowling. "I'm fine."

"So go talk to her."

It sounds so easy. It sounds so _nice_. He's exhausted, and he feels like he's made of nothing but jagged angles. He can't move without hurting someone.

"You know Miller's dad will arrest you if I ask him," Monty says, and Bellamy almost smiles.

"She's still on the radio?"

"She's waiting for you."

It doesn't make him feel better, exactly, but it is enough to convince him. He doesn't know what he's supposed to say to Clarke. The words he didn't get to say to her before he left her are still crowding his brain, still there whenever he lets himself think about her.

It's not like he's going to pour his heart out over the radio. But he doesn't know what else he's going to say.

"Clarke?" he asks.

"Bellamy!" her voice crackles through the radio. "What happened?"

"Who says anything happened?"

"Monty was worried. Kane said the rain hit. Are you--"

"I'm fine, Clarke."

"Octavia?"

He lets out a breath. "She took off."

There's a pause, and then she says, "Are you going to look for her?"

"No. She's--she knows where we are. If she wants to come back, she can."

Another pause, and then she says, "About that."

"What?"

"I wish you were here."

His breath catches on the sudden longing he feels, and he leans his forehead against the wall, closing his eyes. "Yeah? What do you need?"

"Nothing. I just--I'd feel better."

"You just want me to come back?" he asks.

"Yeah, I do. I think you should come back. I shouldn't have--I should have just told you to stay."

_I love you_ , he thinks, and his breath shudders out, unsteady and slow. "I thought you might, yeah."

"You needed to go back. But--if you don't need to stay there, then I want you here. We don't--I don't think we have long. I'd feel better if you were here." He can hear a smile in her voice. "It's nice. There's a real shower and everything."

He smiles a little too. "I'll talk to Kane. See if there's anything we need to send."

"I'm sure you can think of something. And Bellamy?"

"Yeah?"

"If you can't come back here, we can still talk, right?"

"Right," he says, and he thinks, _I love you_.

*

Kane drives him the next day. It's an awkward ride, because it's hard to recover from _you floated my mother_. Especially when Kane was trying to help. But the truth is, Kane can't help him with this one.

He's going to Clarke, and he's going to spend his last few days on earth being as happy as he can. And he's giving Kane an excuse to see Clarke's mom for a few hours, before he goes back to Arkadia. That's something like an apology. As close as he can get, for something he doesn't think he has to apologize for.

"The first word we hear from your sister, someone will be on the radio," Kane tells him, as they wait for the boat. "I promise."

"Thanks," says Bellamy. "For bringing me."

Kane looks to the horizon. "We should go where we can do the most good. You and Clarke tend to do the most good together."

Clarke isn't on the boat, but her mother is. She gives Bellamy a critical look, and he turns away for whatever reunion she and Kane share. He doesn't want to intrude.

Abby doesn't say anything to him until they make it to shore, but when she turns her attention to him, her smile seems real. "She was up all night. She's resting. Nathan can show you the way."

He feels his mouth twitch. "Thanks, Nathan," he says, and Miller rolls his eyes.

"Is it too late to send you back?"

"Way too late," he says.

"It's pretty nice here," Miller says. "Fuck, I don't know why we're sprucing up the Ark. This place survived the first one, I don't see why we can't make it survive the second."

"You tell them that?" 

"You know how they get. Everyone's too busy with the blood science shit." He shrugs. "I'll tell Kane before he goes. But I figure you guys will want a room to yourselves for a couple days either way."

Bellamy swallows hard. "Ourselves?"

Miller hesitates, but then he just says, "Dr. Griffin just told me you were staying with Clarke."

That's nice of her, probably. But--

"I'll wait and see what Clarke says."

"Yeah, well. Murphy says she's on the second floor. First door on the right."

"Thanks."

Miller smiles with half his mouth. "Good to have you here. It gets fucking boring, when everyone else is working."

"Yeah," he agrees. "Good to be here."

It really _is_ nice, the kind of house he's seen in old vids, soft furniture and art on the walls. He feels like he's too dirty to even exist in the space, like his very presence is tainting it. But he brought clean clothes, and Clarke said there was a shower, so--maybe if he scrubs hard enough, the feeling will pass.

The door is slightly ajar, and when Bellamy pushes it open, his breath catches at the sight of Clarke on the bed. She's sleeping above the covers, fully dressed except for her shoes, so she's probably just taking a quick nap. Even though she was up all night. She needs to just-- _stop_.

Like he can talk.

She makes a soft noise and shift in her sleep, and he feels a smile growing on his face. It's only been a few days; the sight of her shouldn't be such a relief.

He toes off his own boots, puts them in the corner by the door, next to Clarke's. He puts his bag down, thinks about waking her, but he can see the shower through the bathroom door, and the temptation is too great. If he's going to see her, he can at least wash all the grime off his skin first.

It's been a shitty few days. He deserves a shower.

The water pressure is the best he's ever felt, and it's _warm_ too, nothing like the tepid, soft showers in Arkadia. He sticks his head in and shakes droplets out of his hair, scrubs himself clean with the delicate soap he finds in the tray. He rinses twice with shampoo and even _conditioner_ , which he has to read the directions for before he uses it.

It's only when he's drying off that he realizes he left his bag in the room, and his clothes are in it. He could put his dirty ones back on, but the thought of it, when his skin actually feels clean for the first time in months, and the last thing he wants to do is ruin that with his grimy t-shirt.

He rubs the towel through his hair a few more times and then wraps it around his waist to venture back into the room. His bag is right by the bathroom door, so he figures he can grab it and get back to change without disturbing Clarke.

But maybe the sound of the shower was enough, because she's already sitting up on the bed waiting for him, and he freezes at the size of her.

His voice fails for a second, but he swallows and gets it back. "Hey."

"Hi," says Clarke. Her voice is huskier than usual, sleep rough, and he thinks, _I love you_.

But he jerks his head toward the door. "Sorry, I just--forgot to grab clothes." He realizes it might not be what she was really wondering about, and he has to clear his throat again. "Miller told me I should just come to you. I hope he wasn't fucking with me."

Clarke shakes her head, but it looks like she's trying to clear it, not like she's disagreeing.

At which point he realizes she was staring at him. At his chest, specifically. And now she's brought her eyes back up to his face, and she's a little flushed.

"No," she says, while he's still trying to figure out if he's just imagining things. "I wanted you here." She worries her lip, and then, to his shock, she launches herself off the bed and into his arms. He catches her automatically, and after a second of confusion, he buries his face in her hair and clings to her. It feels dangerous, but it was her idea, and he doesn't know how to let go. She smells like the same shampoo and soap he used, and like herself under all of that, familiar and perfect.

"It's only been three days," he teases, like he's not holding her just as tight.

"I shouldn't have let you go."

"I don't take orders from you."

She lets out a soft laugh. "I should have told you I wanted you to stay, then."

"I needed to go." He lets out a long breath. "But I'm glad you asked me to come back." 

The awareness that they're still holding onto each other and that he's mostly naked comes to him slowly, mostly when he realizes he's starting to get hard, and his only defense against Clarke realizing it too is the towel.

She'd understand, he's sure. She's practically a doctor, she knows how bodies work. It wouldn't be a surprise.

But it would be weird.

"I should get dressed," he says, awkward. "And you--I'm sure you guys have a ton to do."

She squeezes him once more, tight, and then steps back, but not far. Just far enough to look at him with sharp, determined eyes. "Bellamy."

He's frozen in place, in spite of all the awkwardness. "Yeah?"

"On the beach. You were--" She swallows. "You were going to tell me something. What were you going to say?"

For a second, his mind goes white and blank. But she's _asking_ , and her expression is still defiant, like she's waiting for him to try to deny it.

"You know what I was going to say, Clarke." That's safe, right? If she's expecting something else, she can tell him what.

But of course she doesn't. She just raises her eyebrows, unimpressed. "I do?"

"If you wanted to know so badly, you could have just let me finish."

"Bellamy--"

"If you really want to talk about this, you should let me get dressed," he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

She nods to herself, once, and her voice is deliberate when she says, "No, I don't really want to _talk_ about it. And it would be kind of a waste if you got dressed."

This time, his brain shorts out for a lot longer, and he just stares at Clarke. She's still flushed, her lip trapped in her teeth, and his heart is in his throat.

But--she slept with Niylah too, he knows. And he can't really believe that she thinks the last thing he was going to say to her was, _I want to fuck you_ , but--

"I love you," he says, and her face blooms into a brilliant smile, and then she's laughing, and then she's kissing him, sudden and bright, and his arms are full of her again, and he kisses her back, automatic in spite of being overwhelmed.

"That's what I was hoping you were going to say." Her mouth tugs up at one side. "I would have been pretty pissed if that was the last thing you ever told me."

"I figured I'd say goodbye after." He wants to kiss her so much it's almost painful, but--she hasn't said what he actually needs to hear. "It's okay," he adds. "I wasn't going to say it because I thought you--" She's watching him, looking puzzled, and he has to close his eyes to finish. "We don't have to do this."

She laughs again, a bright shock of sound.

"End-of-the-world fucking isn't really my thing," he adds, but when he opens his eyes, she's smiling.

She waits until he meets her eye, and then she says. "I love you too, Bellamy. It's not my fault you didn't make a move until the end of the world." She pauses, thinking it over. "Or maybe it is. But--"

When he kisses her, he knows it's too hard and too frantic, but he can't help it. His mouth was still tingling with the taste of her, and it was hard enough to hold back already. And now she's--

She loves him. She said she loved him. And she kissed him and she's pulling him back toward the bed. Her hands drop to his waist, undoing the towel, and if they weren't making out like it was going out of style, he would be embarrassed. But she pushes him onto the bed, falling on top of him without breaking contact, and it feels a lot more important to push his hands under her shirt to tug it off.

"As soon as I saw this room, all I could think was how much I wanted you in it with me," she says. "We deserve a break."

"So you got your mom's boyfriend to give me a ride out here so you could get laid," he teases.

"And tell you I love you," she says. "Which is why we're going to survive. This isn't going to be the only time we get to do this."

"I'm not going anywhere, Clarke," he says, and she looks so relieved he almost can't stand it.

"Good." She worries her lip. "So, can I suck your dick?"

He drops his head against the pillows. This is the nicest bed he's ever been in in his entire life, and Clarke is on top of him and asking if she can suck his dick. If there's a heaven, this might be it.

"If you want, yeah. You don't have--"

She laughs. "I had my mom's boyfriend drive you out here so I could get laid. I want to, Bellamy. I want everything." 

"Oh," he says, soft, and she presses her mouth against his, quick, and then slides down.

He's still hard, because nothing that's happened would have stopped that, and the way Clarke worries her lip as she looks at him just makes him harder. And then her fingers are on him, tentative, and his hips jerk, making her smile.

"Been a while?" she teases.

"You're a lot better at finding girlfriends than I am," he says, and immediately regrets it, but--this is Clarke. She just smiles.

"You weren't really looking."

"No," he agrees. "I wasn't really looking."

She nods and leans in, and Bellamy's eyes slam shut as her tongue swirls around the head of his cock. Her mouth is hot and perfect, and he's really glad he showered for this, glad he feels like a fresh person, someone brand new inside and out.

"Fuck, Clarke," he groans, and she takes him deeper, mouth stretching. When he slides his hand into her hair, she moans, and he's going to come so quickly. He hasn't even had the inclination to jerk off recently, and now he's feeling way too much. And it's _her_. This is Clarke Griffin, who loves him and wants to suck his dick.

Both things feel almost miraculous. Maybe they really can survive this thing. If Clarke is in love with him, anything is possible.

She pulls back to give him a crooked smile. "Stop thinking so much and enjoy it, okay? I am."

"Doing my best," he says, and she leans back in, taking him deep and wet, her tongue working, and he gasps and groans and lets his mind go blank again, in the best way.

He tugs her hair gently, and she hums, and doesn't seem to mind at all when he comes in her mouth, just takes it and then slides back up to him, grin as bright as he's ever seen it.

"I haven't done that since the Ark," she says.

"You're still good at it," he says. He's still trying to regain his breath.

"Thanks."

He turns his head to kiss her, and she kisses back, warm and easy. It already feels familiar and easy, like something they've been doing forever, and he slides his hand into her hair to pull her closer, licking the taste of himself out of her mouth.

"What do you want?" he asks, nudging his nose against hers.

"What?"

He pops the button on her jeans, and she wriggles out of them. In just her underwear, he can see how she's lost weight since they got to the ground, some scars he doesn't know the story behind, and he tells himself they'll have time for her to tell him, for her to get healthy again.

For both of them to heal.

"Your turn," he says. "Do I get to--" He rubs two fingers against her through her underwear, feels his stomach swoop when she's already wet and pushing against him. 

"Anything," she gasps, and he grins.

"Naked," he says, and he gets her underwear and she unhooks her bra and settles back. There are a thousand pillows on the bed, and it doesn't quite feel like his life, seeing her like this. It feels like something else entirely.

But it's his.

He presses a kiss to her lips, and then her sternum, nuzzles between her breasts, but she's _so_ wet, he just wants to be feeling her. He strokes her again, without the barrier of cloth now, and she moans and spreads her legs wider, and he pushes his fingers inside her just as his mouth finds her clit, and she actually cries out.

"Bellamy--" she gasps, and it's exactly what he needed to hear. She's with him. They're together.

"Yeah," he murmurs, and then he dedicates all his attention to her, thrusting his fingers inside her, sucking her clit, feeling her squirm under him, making all these tiny, desperate noises under her breath, his name falling from her lips as she come apart.

He doesn't let up after the first orgasm, works her through another, and when she pulls him back up and feels his dick hard against her leg again, she laughs and guides him inside her, and it's hot and fast and frantic, maybe not the best sex he's ever had from a technical standpoint, but--he's never been so fucking _happy_.

"Don't you have something else you're supposed to be doing?" he asks, when she curls into his side. Her nose is under his jaw and their fingers are tangled together on his chest. He never wants to move, but there's a world he really wants saved.

"A lot of science is just waiting for experiments to be done," she says, yawning and nosing his neck. "Jackson's monitoring it. I've got an alarm set. We can relax."

He has to laugh. "That would be new for us."

"So we might as well try it." She grabs the blanket and tugs it over them. "I'm really glad you came back. If this is all we get, I want--"

He kisses her hair, letting his eyes slide shut. "Yeah. Me too."


	4. Minty - Semi-public sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> College AU, smut!

"I can't believe you're making me go to a party," Bellamy grumbles.

Nate rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'm _making_ you. I told you Clarke told me she and Monty were going to be here and I might go, and you decided you were going to come with me."

There's a pause, and Nate rolls his eyes even though Bellamy won't see. Bellamy's ridiculous crush on Clarke wasn't something he anticipated, when he introduced the two of them. He and Clarke were in the same friend group in high school, but not totally _friends_ , and he'd sort of expected the relationship wouldn't last past graduation, but they ended up at the same college, in the same dorm, so they just kept on being friends. They picked into the same dorm sophomore year too, albeit on different floors, and Bellamy lived next to Nate. He and Nate became friends, but Nate was kind of worried he and Clarke would murder each other.

Which, honestly, might count as an improvement over their actual relationship. Their actual relationship is basically just both of them pretending they don't want to get married, but they're definitely going to, so as far as Nate's concerned, they should just lean into it. But if they want to spend an entire party having one of their stupid arguments instead of making out, he's not going to stop them. Nate has bigger fish to fry.

Namely: Monty Green.

Monty is adorable, bisexual, and in Clarke's biology class. Nate has been trying to flirt with him, but he's had trouble finding opportunities, and Clarke just rolls her eyes whenever she witnesses it, so--the party seems like a great opportunity. Clarke and Bellamy will be distracted with each other, and he can drink a little, loosen up, and try to figure out how to flirt with Monty.

"Fine, I can't believe you're going to a party," Bellamy finally says, which is a pretty decent save, as saves go. "You really think this is the way to hit on Monty?"

"Sorry, are you suddenly an expert on flirting?"

He scowls. "I'm great at flirting."

It's actually sort of true; Bellamy's good at picking people up in a way that Nate never has been. If Bellamy wants to get laid, he can generally do it without much trouble. He knows how to go into a party, pick a person, and take them home; he just starts running into problems once feelings get involved.

Nate is just kind of generally bad at follow through. He doesn't have much trouble with flirting; he's great at innuendo and joking around, but he's basically terrible at taking the step beyond that and actually making a move. He never quite believes that people are serious about him, so he doesn't know how to put himself out there and be serious about them either.

"So am I," Nate says easy. "We're shitty at relationships, though. Might as well get drunk and see what happens, right?"

Bellamy snorts. "Yeah, good attitude." He pauses, gives Miller a contemplative look. "You need me to do anything? Wingman, or whatever? Is that a thing?"

"Yeah, you can wingman me by distracting Clarke so she won't try to help. I can do this without you two."

"Can you?" Bellamy asks, sounding wary.

"Better than I can with you guys hovering and offering commentary."

There's a moment while Bellamy thinks it over, but then he inclines his head. "Yeah, that sounds right. I'll keep us out of your hair."

"You're a good friend," Nate says, and holds the door open for him.

The party is in the basement of some random dorm, and as Nate hoped, it's already going when they arrive. There's nothing he hates quite as much as being one of the first people at a party, especially one where he doesn't even know who's running it. All he knows is Clarke and Monty are here and the theme is "bubbles."

Some kid gives them both bubble fluid, and there's a bubble machine, and loud music and dancing.

"What the fuck," Bellamy says, and Nate offers his fist for a bump. College parties are _so weird_. This is why they don't go.

"You see them?" he asks.

"Not yet. Maybe they aren't--wait, I think that's Clarke."

"You would find Clarke first."

"She's _blonde_ , it stands out." He nudges Nate. "That's her, right?"

Nate glances over, and there she is, a drink in her hand and her hair loose and tumbling. He watches her turn to talk to someone, and there's Monty too. He's not wearing his glasses, and he and Clarke have both decorated their faces with thematic circles of blue glitter, which is doing a lot more for Nate than he would have expected. 

"That's them," he agrees. "Ready?"

"I'm not--" he protests, but apparently gives up on his attempt to act like he's not going to hit on Clarke with a sigh. "Yeah. Ready."

Nate leads the way through the crowd, and Clarke sees him first, and then visibly brightens when she spots Bellamy behind him, because they're fucking ridiculous, as human beings. 

But then she nudges Monty, and Monty is grinning at Nate, so, everyone is ridiculous, and there's at least a decent chance their ridiculousness will work out for everyone. That would be _awesome_. Everyone can get laid at the bubble party.

"Hey!" says Clarke. "I can't believe Bellamy's actually at a party."

"I'm a party animal," he says, dry. "Nice glitter, princess."

His attempt at sarcasm is useless; Clarke lights up with pleasure, and Monty catches Nate's eye and gives him a slightly exasperated smile.

"I feel like we're under-decorated," he tells Monty.

Apparently it's the right thing to say, because it's Monty's turn to light up. "You want some?"

"You brought glitter to the party?"

"What if we need touch ups? We have to maintain that perfect look, Miller." He pulls a little container of glitter out of his pocket and shakes it in Nate's general direction. "Come on. It'll be fun."

"Lead the way," says Nate, and follows Monty through the throng of people to the bathroom. It's shockingly bright and white inside, in contrast to the dark, sweaty dance floor, and under the harsh lights, Monty's glitter looks even sparklier.

"Sorry to drag you off as soon as you got here," says Monty, with a mischievous smile. "But I promised Clarke I'd leave her and Bellamy alone as soon as possible." He jerks his chin toward counter of sinks. "Sit."

Nate finds a dry spot and hops up. "Did she actually ask you to promise that?"

Monty pauses. "No. She just casually mentioned you and Bellamy were actually showing up to a party for once, and I promised her I'd leave them alone without actually telling her I was doing it."

"Sounds about right, yeah."

"It's fine, she'll definitely ask him to dance. Clarke actually loves party dancing. She's kind of a frat boy at heart."

"I know. I was in high school with her, remember?"

"I actually always forget that!" says Monty, grinning. "I can't imagine it. Do you have a yearbook or something? I want pictures of you guys. I bet you were both in the play."

"We were, yeah. We were both in the theater clique."

"I knew it." He taps Nate's knee. "Open."

"Open?"

"Legs apart. I need to get in there."

Nate is dark enough it's not very obvious when he flushes, but he can feel the rush of blood to his cheeks. Which at least means the blood is going away from his dick, so that's a plus. He spreads his legs and Monty settles between them with the glitter.

"I figured this was Clarke's thing," he offers. "The glitter."

"It was her idea, and she did mine, but I did hers. Don't worry, I'm not going to mess up your pretty face."

"Yeah, that's definitely what I was worried about."

Monty is biting his tongue in concentration, leaning in close, and Nate's blood is definitely reconsidering where it wants to go. Monty smells a little like alcohol and a little like sweat, and his hair is brushing against Nate's face when he moves, and it's a lot to deal with.

"Why does everyone call you Miller?" he asks. "I know I call you that because Clarke does, but how did you start going by Miller?"

"We had two Nates in our friend group in high school, so we both went by our last names. And me and Clarke were in the same dorm freshman year, so everyone here picked up on it too."

"Nate," Monty says. "I like Nate."

"I'm fine with pretty much anything. Bellamy calls me _hey, dickface_ half the time."

"I think that has to be a more common name than Nate."

He laughs. "Yeah, probably." 

Monty pulls back to survey his handiwork, and when his tongue darts out to wet his lips, Nate tracks the movement without meaning to. He's so _close_.

"Good?" he asks, voice coming out a little rough.

"Yeah!" Monty's voice is way too bright, and Nate is worried he made it weird, but then he pauses and says, "You know what, actually, no."

"No?"

"Not quite done," he says, and then he kisses Nate. 

It's a quick kiss, just the press of his lips before he pulls back and to check Nate's reaction, anxiety melting into relief at Nate's (probably very dorky) smile.

"Okay, now we're good," says Monty.

"Are you kidding?" asks Nate, pulling him back in. "That was nothing."

This kiss is longer and wetter, Nate sliding his hands up to ruck up the back of Monty's shirt, Monty licking into Nate's mouth, taking control in a way Nate wouldn't have expected and is really, really fucking into. 

"Oh fuck," says Monty, nipping Nate's bottom lip. "Wow. I didn't think that was going to work."

"Which part?"

"Any of it. Clarke told me you were into me, but--wow, have you seen yourself?"

"Yeah, but apparently you haven't seen yourself. I just came to this party to hang out with you."

"Holy shit. Okay, wow. Yeah. Really?"

"I don't like Bellamy enough to come to a party to set him up," Nate says, and Monty snickers. "It's a _party_."

"Glad I'm worth the effort."

"Definitely," says Nate, and pulls him back in. Monty's hands anchor themselves on his hips, and Nate wraps his legs around Monty's waist and then--

There's a burst of sound and they jump apart as some drunk kid staggers in, unzips and pisses into the urinal, and stumbles back out without washing his hands or apparently noticing them.

They both stare at the door for a second, and then Monty breaks down laughing on Nate's neck.

"Well, at least he wasn't homophobic or anything," Nate observes, and Monty just laughs harder. "But I guess we should maybe stop making out in the bathroom."

To his surprise, Monty sobers, and he presses his lips to Nate's neck, and then scrapes his teeth there, just barely. "Or we could go into a stall and you let me suck your dick."

Nate chokes. "Holy shit, Monty."

"Sorry, did you not want me to suck your dick tonight? Because that was like at the top of my list of things to do tonight. _Suck Nathan Miller's dick_ and _leave Clarke alone with Bellamy_. That was my entire to-do list."

"I'm honored." He swallows hard. "Fuck. You really want to suck my dick in a fucking dorm bathroom?"

Monty's hand slides down between Nate's legs, rubbing him through his jeans, and Nate groans. "I want to suck your dick, like, yesterday," says Monty. "As soon as humanly possible. If this is where I can do it, this is where I want to do it."

"Someone could come in."

"You think they care? Someone's probably getting a blowjob out there where _anyone_ could see. It's a college party. Everyone's wasted." He nips Nate's neck again. "Come on. I want to know what you taste like."

"Jesus fucking shit."

"You have a really creative potty mouth when you're turned on," Monty says, with clear delight. He pulls back and tugs on the front of Nate's shirt, and Nate obligingly slides off the counter and lets Monty pull him into one of the stalls. It's really _not_ a hot place, like, at all, but Monty closes and locks the door and pushes it up against him, and his hand is already going for the fly of Nate's jeans, and Nate really hasn't gotten anyone else to interact with his dick in a while. "This is okay, right?" he asks, pulling back. "Enthusiastic consent. I got the impression that--"

"Please suck my dick in this dirty bathroom where anyone could hear us, yeah."

Monty grins. "That's what I thought, yeah." He nips Nate's bottom lip and then he's sliding down, pulling Nate's jeans and boxers with him, licking his lips at the sight of Nate's erection. "Just be quiet, okay?" he asks, eyes dark. "I bet you can be quiet for me."

Nate groans and lets his head drop back against the door. "Yeah," he breathes. "I'm pretty good at being quiet."

"Good," says Monty, and he licks his hand before he wraps it around the base of Nate's dick, giving him a few experimental tugs. He has soft hands, softer than Nate's, but a firm, sure grip that feels perfect. "Yeah, this was what I wanted. Fuck, I couldn't believe it when Clarke introduced us. She said I was your type and I thought she must be fucking with me. But you want me."

"Yeah. I really fucking want you."

"Cool," says Monty, and slides his mouth over Nate's dick.

He sucks dick with the same kind of cheerful enthusiasm he has when he's talking about video games and computer programming, like it's something he loves doing and can't get enough of. Which is maybe a weird thing to be thinking while he's getting his dick sucked, but Nate's brain loves weird associations.

And, in his defense, the main thing he's thinking is still _holy shit_ on non-stop replay, because _holy shit_ , Monty is sucking his dick. Monty is sucking his dick, and it feels so good, he can barely breathe.

Some vague third part of his brain registers the door opening again, the sound of the party, and the knowledge that if anyone looks in the stalls, they'll be able to tell exactly what's happening, will see two people and one of them on their knees, just makes him harder, makes him push into Monty's mouth, and he can feel Monty's smile when he realizes.

The door closes again, and Nate breathes out, "Fuck," just under his breath.

Monty pulls back enough to say, "Quiet," and Nate ends up biting his own arm at the end, muffling the sounds he wants to make as Monty's tongue works his slit and his hand works his shaft.

Monty swallows a lot more cleanly than Nate's ever managed, and then he leans back on his heels, grinning up at Nate. 

"You're really good at that," says Nate.

"Why do you think I wanted to do it so much? Now you're totally going to keep me."

"I was already going to keep you. I, uh--not to make it weird, but I really like you as a person. Not just for your blow-job skills."

Monty laughs. "Oh no, anything but that."

Nate tugs him up and kisses him, wet and hot. Monty is hard in his jeans, dick straining against his zipper, and Nate gets his hand in his boxers to start jerking him off. "Is this good?"

"It's a start," says Monty, and Nate grins. That sounds exactly right; it's an _excellent_ start.


	5. The Best Policy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was "someone gets accidentally hit with an honesty spell" but I ended up tweaking it. This is basically a Hogwarts AU except it's not actually at Hogwarts because I wanted to come up with my own truth serum rules, so it's just a generic magic high school.

Of course, it's Murphy's idea.

"Griffin wouldn't make it a day, telling everyone the truth."

It's not like Bellamy disagrees. Clarke Griffin is one of those people who lives off of half-truths and insinuations. He's not sure how much she outright _lies_ , but she absolutely massages the truth until it says what she wants it to say. 

And sometimes it does piss Bellamy off, but in a guilty way, because he does the same thing, and it's easy to dislike people for reminding him of things he doesn't always love about himself. 

It should be easy to dislike Clarke for all sorts of things. He has a list a mile long of things she does that piss him off. And yet, somehow, he can't quite talk himself around to actually hating her. Not even close.

It's the kind of personal failing he has not intention of telling anyone else about, so he smirks at Murphy and says, "Yeah, she'd probably die right on the spot."

"That's what I'm saying," says Murphy. He holds up a vial and shakes it, grinning. "Truth serum. Think you could get it in her food?"

The thing is, Bellamy knows he could. He argues with Clarke all the time, often at meals, and he wouldn't have any trouble slipping it into her drink or her food or something while he was doing it. Clarke isn't always that observant when she's busy fighting with him. He'd have no trouble at all.

And everyone is watching him, which means he that he can't not do it. Not without saying that he thinks it's a dick move and Clarke doesn't deserve it. No one deserves it, if he's really honest. Which he isn't, because honesty, _true_ honesty, the kind that comes from potions and spells, the kind that you can't get out of, that kind of honesty is fucked up. Even the most honest people tell lies. And Clarke isn't the most honest person, of course. It's not like Murphy is wrong to think she'd suffer under truth serum. But Bellamy doesn't know what an honest Clarke Griffin looks like, and he's honestly a little afraid to know. 

But he's not going to tell Murphy that.

So he takes the vial with a smirk. "Yeah," he says. "I bet I can get her to take it."

*

Clarke is sitting alone at breakfast the next morning, all her attention on a book, and she keeps missing her tea cup when she tries to pick it up because she's not paying any attention. He could slip the serum in without her even knowing _he_ was there, let alone the potion.

Still, there's a large part of Bellamy that _likes_ Clarke. Much larger than the part of himself that doesn't like her. He doesn't want to, because she's the golden girl, the rich, perfect princess who's never had to work a day in her life. But after three years in school together, he's realized that even though she doesn't have to work, she does. Clarke is the real deal, and even if she's privileged, she's smart and capable and good. Bellamy isn't her friend, doesn't know how to be, but--honestly, sometimes he wishes he could figure it out.

Which is why he sits down next to her and puts the vial between them, blocked by his own body, so Murphy won't be able to see that he's showing Clarke.

"I'm busy," she says, not looking at him. "Whatever you want, I'm not interested."

"Really?"

She does look up then, just to glare at him. "What makes you think I'd be interested in anything you have to say?"

"Your spirit of adventure."

Her eyes flick down to the vial. "You aren't seriously trying to get me high, are you?"

"Think of it more as a wager. Twenty-four hours, no lies."

Clarke picks up the vial, gives it a pensive shake. "It's not much of a bet if we can't lie," she says. "That's not actually a challenge."

"Which one of us lasts longer," he says. "Before we decide to play sick instead of being honest."

She puts the vial back down on the table. "Why don't you just tell me what's really going on?"

It's basically what he was expecting, and he leans in close. "Look, I know I'm an asshole, but I'm not enough of an asshole to force you to tell the truth. That's _dangerous_ , if you don't know about it. But Murphy came up with this, and he thinks I'm here, sneaking this into your drink to mess with you. So--"

"So you're going to take it too?" she asks. "That's your solution? Have you thought about just saying _no_? He's your underling, right? Aren't you supposed to be in control of them?"

He shrugs. "Maybe I'm curious what it looks like, if Clarke Griffin actually tells the truth."

She considers the vial. "What do I get? If I last longer than you."

"What do you want?"

She drums her fingers on the table. "Ancient Languages."

"What about them?"

"That's my worst class. I could get by the last few years, but this year is--it's bad. Once we get out of memorization and into theory, I suck. I could use some help, and I know you're the teacher's pet."

His heart does some odd things in his chest. Clarke can ask him for anything, and she's asking him for _help_. With her homework. 

It takes a real effort to not grin.

"Yeah, I can do that." 

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"It's a bet. What do you want?"

"Enchantments," he says. It feels fair; that's his worst subject, the same as Ancient Languages is for Clarke. And if her reward is going to involve spending time with him, his is going to involve spending time with her too.

"Yeah, you suck at Enchantments."

"So, if I lose, you help me with Enchantments."

Clarke takes the vial out of his hand, toying with it thoughtfully. "Whoever can last longer?"

"It'll be gone in twenty-four hours. So, yeah. Whichever one of us can be in public longer."

"Deal," she says, and takes off the top of the vial to take a long sip. 

When she hands it back, Bellamy toys with the idea of not taking it, but he's not that kind of asshole. They have an agreement, and he's sticking with it. 

He finishes the potion and stuffs the empty vial in his pocket. "Are you feeling it?" he asks.

"I think so. You?"

His stomach is all knots and swirls. It's a little alarming. "Definitely." He exhales. "Okay. Well--have a good day?"

"You too. But--" She worries her lip. "We should pick a meeting time. Tonight. Before it wears off. So we'll be honest about how long we could last."

"Oh, yeah. Uh--eleven?" he offers. "By the lake? I assume you can sneak out."

"Yeah, I can make it. See you tonight, Bellamy."

"And in class," he points out. "Unless you're bailing before first period."

"You wish." She opens her book. "Much as I'd like to keep arguing with you, you should go. I have to study."

It can't be a lie; it's not possible. Clarke Griffin would genuinely like to keep arguing with him.

"Hope you do well on whatever you're studying for," he says, just as truthfully, and steals her apple as he goes.

It's probably going to be an incredibly shitty day. But he still can't help grinning.

*

The problem with truth serums is not that they make you tell the truth. Bellamy lies while (technically) telling the truth all the time. It's easy to deceive without lying, and truth serums are designed to prevent that. From what he's read, you can tell a half truth, and then the serum will just make you spit out the rest.

Which is why the first person he goes to is Miller.

"I need you to keep Murphy away from me today."

Miller raises his eyebrows. "Yeah? Why?"

"Because I bet Clarke I'd last longer on truth serum than she would."

"What does that even mean?" 

"Not much," Bellamy admits. He nearly adds _honestly_ , but it's redundant. "I said one of us was going to give up and decide we couldn't interact with people, but we're both too stubborn, so we're both going to last the whole day, no problem."

There's a pause. "Okay, start over. Why did you take it?"

"Because I wanted to be fair," he says. And then the words just--swell in his mouth. He can't quite explain it. He didn't even think he wasn't telling the whole truth, but the serum disagreed. "I wanted her to take it, but I couldn't just sneak it into her breakfast, I'd be an asshole. She had to agree."

Miller is kind of staring at him, unimpressed, and Bellamy can't blame him. But all he says is, "Hey, did you want to make out with me sophomore year?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck, I knew it. I should have asked."

Bellamy snorts. "So, you're going to help, right?"

"Yeah. I've got your back."

*

Third period, Raven Reyes sits down next to him and says, "So, you have to tell me the truth about everything, right?"

"Yeah. Clarke told you?"

"I assume you have someone watching your back to make sure you don't get fucked over by this too."

"Miller. But here you are, so he's not doing a good job."

"Maybe he just knows I'm trustworthy."

Bellamy snorts, but what comes out of his mouth is is, "Yeah, he knows I don't care about telling you anything." Raven's cool. She's not going to fuck him over.

That makes her laugh. "Wow, you really are whammied, huh?"

"I assumed you tested it on Clarke."

"Obviously. But maybe you were fucking with her."

"I wouldn't do that," he says. "Not with something like this." Something about the statement makes him feel odd, and he clears his throat. "What did you ask her? To see if it worked."

"See, I didn't take a truth potion, so I don't have to tell you." She considers. "You planning to ask Clarke any asshole shit?"

"Not planning to," he says. "It's not like we talk much, most days. But I told Miller to keep Murphy away from her. You might want to help with that. It was his idea to give her the serum, so he might try something."

"Does he know you took it?"

"No. You think I want Murphy to have full access to everything I've ever thought?"

"You should really reconsider your personal relationships," says Raven, tapping her jaw. "It's pretty fucked up that you trust me and Clarke more with your total honesty than someone who's supposed to be one of your best friends."

"If I knew how to be friends with Clarke, I'd be doing it," he says, and then clamps his mouth shut, like that would actually _work_. But apparently that's sufficient truth on the subject. Nothing else spills out.

"You know you're a dumbass, right?" Raven asks, finally.

"Yeah," he says, without any assistance from the serum. "I know."

*

He goes outside for lunch, away from his regular table, and he's only there for a few minutes before Clarke sits down across from him. She looks less frazzled than she did this morning, and he doesn't think he _has_ to smile at her, but he wants to, and he might as well be honest about it.

"Hey. How was your test?"

"It was a presentation. It went pretty well, but you know you're majorly advantaged in this thing, right?"

"I know," he says. "But I'm not sure what specifically you mean."

"I had a Q and A session after my presentation," she says, and he winces. "Yeah. It wasn't _that_ obvious, and Professor Pike just told me that while he valued my honesty about how much time I'd put into the project and how late I was up working on it, I didn't have to share that. And he told me to do it earlier next time, if possible."

"Sorry."

"I assume you got to make sure you'd done all your work and didn't get caught admitting that you didn't read the chapter."

"Maybe I always do the reading," he says, and then, immediately, "Yeah, no, I planned it. I made sure I was on top of all my work and read about what I should expect from having to tell the truth."

"Wow, you really wanted to win this meaningless bet, huh?" she teases.

"I wasn't just going to go in blind. But I don't really care about winning. I figure we're both going to make it the whole day anyway. You're too stubborn to quit." He thinks he's done again, but the serum doesn't. "I'll help you with Ancient Languages either way," he adds. "All you have to do is ask. I like hanging out with you."

"I like hanging out with you too. I wish we did it more," says Clarke, and bites the side of her mouth. "So--this is really stressful."

"Which part?" he asks. 

"The serum. I haven't had anything bad happen, but I can't stop worrying that something will. Someone's going to ask me the wrong thing and they'll realize it and there go all my secrets."

Bellamy swallows hard. "It's really that bad?"

"I don't know," she says, and her mouth twists a little. "It feels that bad. Someone's going to ask me something that I'd usually be polite about, and I won't. You must get it. You're polite sometimes, right?" she teases, but the potion kicks in. "I know you are."

"You know I am." He wets his lips. "So why did you take it? You could have said no. I was expecting you to."

"Because you asked," she says. She looks down, but of course she can't actually stop talking. "You don't really ask me to do much, and I always want to spend more time with you, so of course I said yes. It's just a day, right? I can survive."

"Uh--if I ask for more details about that, am I being an asshole?" Bellamy asks. His mouth is dry. Clarke likes hanging out with him. She _always_ wants to spend more time with him. Clarke secretly likes him, except that it's not a secret anymore.

"Yes," she says, but she's smiling. "Raven said you wanted to be friends with me."

"I do," he says, and then, of course, "I also want to kiss you. Right now. And later. Always, basically. I always want to kiss you. And--"

The press of her lips shuts him up, but his mouth is still trying to detail all the things he wants to do to her, because fuck truth serum. They could be making out, and instead, he's still trying to talk.

Clarke pulls back, laughing, just in time for him to say, "I think I'm kind of in love with you."

She grins. "You know, there are better ways to confess than truth serum."

"Yeah. But at least you know I really mean it."

"There is that." She kisses him, but just for a second before her own honesty kicks in. "I think I'm kind of in love with you too."

"Oh."

This time, when he kisses her, neither of them has anything to interrupt with, so he just keeps going, hand tangling in her hair, mouth urgent. And she responds just as eagerly, smiling and tugging him closer, _perfect_.

"Sorry this is so stressful for you," he murmurs, and she laughs.

"I'm feeling a lot better about it."

"Still. I was going somewhere with that."

"Yeah?"

"If we both skip our afternoon classes, no one loses the bet. We both give up at the same time."

She grins. "I was actually thinking the same thing."

"Clarke Griffin wants to blow off class to make out?" he teases. "I never thought I'd see the day."

"Well, I hear you do it all the time, so--"

"Not nearly as much as people think," he says. "I care about my grades. And I haven't wanted to, lately. Most of my afternoon classes are with you, so I'd rather be there."

She bites her lip. "You better keep telling me how much you like me after this wears off."

"As much as you want," he promises, and doesn't need the serum to know that he means it.

*

Murphy corners him the next day. "Dude, don't tell me you used truth serum to get Griffin to admit she's into you. That's not how it was supposed to go."

Given that Harper McIntire walked in on them making out when she left class due to actually being sick, it's pretty hard to deny that he and Clarke hooked up. Plus, he found her on the way to breakfast and held her hand, which she didn't seem to mind, and he honestly has no desire to pretend that he's not dating her. He'd like to tell everyone that he's dating her.

But, again, Harper caught them, and their rivalry is the stuff of legends, so the news spread fast. He doesn't have to tell anyone; they already know.

Still, he appreciates the ability to not tell Murphy the whole truth. It feels like such a luxury. "Maybe when she's honest with herself, I'm just irresistible."

Murphy just rolls his eyes. "So, what, you're just dating her now? That's what a whole vial of truth serum got me?"

"Yeah, that sounds about right." He claps Murphy on the shoulder, gives him a huge, stupid grin. "Honestly? I can't thank you enough."


	6. "You seem to think that oral won't feel good and I intend to prove you wrong"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I like how this collection is way more smut than most of them WHATEVER it's all cool I reblogged an accidental sex meme so we might get a couple more of these.

Bellamy does not understand how he gets into these conversations.

Or, rather, he doesn't understand how these conversations are happening _around_ him, because he's not actually supposed to be involved. He's just hanging out, minding his own business, when Clarke is on the phone. Which happens surprisingly often, honestly. He thought that people in their generation weren't supposed to be into phone calls, but Clarke has an actual _schedule_ set up where to phone her out-of-town college friends so they can discuss their lives, and Bellamy ends up listening in and occasionally offering his own commentary because he can't _not_ , okay? He is very bad at keeping his mouth shut, and Clarke never seems to mind, so, really, it's fine.

But it does mean he hears a lot about how terrible her friend Harper's current boyfriend is, and how Monroe's periods really shouldn't be that painful and she should probably see a doctor, and how many dick pics women on dating apps get. None of which bothers him, of course, but he does sometimes feel like he's eavesdropping even though everyone involved knows about it. And he still feels a little weird offering his his opinions on how, no, this Murphy guy is not going to change and Harper should dump his ass, but Maya's boyfriend is probably just kind of absent-minded and seems like he'll respond well to feedback, if she think he's worth the effort.

Which is how he ends up in a conversation about cunnilingus.

"Hey, wait, no," Clarke is saying. She's talking Maya through yet another boyfriend thing, and he can't help finding it a little funny that she's somehow the relationship expert in the group. They've been living together for a year and she hasn't been on a single date that whole time. "Just because I'm bisexual doesn't mean I'm an _expert_. Honestly, I've never done it before, I always thought it would be weird." When Bellamy raises his eyebrows, she says, "Oral."

"What kind of oral?" he asks.

"Any kind. Well, okay, I blew this guy in high school because it was high school and everyone just sort of expected you to give head, but nothing since then. I have a pretty strong gag reflex."

"If her boyfriend is saying she has to suck his dick, she should definitely dump him," he says.

"No, that's not it. He's eating her out and apparently bad at it. Of course I'm telling him!" she adds, to Maya. "Maybe he has some insight. If you want to get eaten out, you should get eaten out. I don't have to think it would be fun."

"Wait," he says, distracted from Maya's issue by her phrasing. "You're not just saying you've never eaten anyone out. No one's ever eaten you out either?"

"And based on what Maya's saying, I don't want anyone to."

"Okay, whatever, we're going to deal with that in a minute. Give me the phone."

It's maybe a little weird how many times he's talked Maya through crises given he has never actually _met_ her, but all Clarke's friends seem to have just accepted him as their long-distance Cool Big Brother, or something like that. They recognize he's both knowledgeable and helpful, on top of being unable to keep his mouth shut, and confide in him accordingly.

So Bellamy listens as Maya describes Jasper's actually technique--which includes something he called the _clit nibble_ , which, fuck no--until he can't actually take it anymore.

"Okay," he tells her. "Look, if he doesn't know what he's doing, he shouldn't try to be fancy, okay? Is he good with his hands?"

"Yeah," says Maya. "He usually doesn't try to get me off with his hands but he'll, um--finger me when we're getting ready? Is this weird for you?" she adds.

"Kind of, but I figure it's a public service. If you want me to just talk to him directly instead--"

She laughs. "No, that's okay. I can just give him the highlights."

"Your call." He drums his fingers on Clarke's leg, absent. "Whatever he's doing with his fingers, he should keep doing it. Just add suction, basically. And tongue. Teeth are--jesus, yeah, teeth shouldn't get involved. And if you want he can switch it up, so, like--fingers on your clit, tongue inside you. It really depends on what you're into. But most girls I've met really like oral when it's done right, so it's worth seeing if you like, you know, the basics. And then once you've got those down, he can try to get fancier. And seriously, if something feels bad tell him _when he's doing it_. It's a lot easier to remember, and then he won't think you liked it and do it more and suddenly you have a kink that isn't actually a kink for you."

Maya laughs. "Yeah, that sounds bad. Thanks for--he's a great guy, just--more enthusiastic than experienced, I guess. Not that I can talk."

"Hey, it's fine," he says. "I don't mind. Always glad to do a PSA about cunnilingus. And you can tell your boyfriend to call me if he needs any more help."

"Yeah, that conversation wouldn't be awkward _at all_ ," says Maya, dry. " _Hey, Jasper, I was just telling Clarke's hot roommate whom I've never met all about our sex life, he has feedback for you_."

"If he doesn't get feedback he's never going to learn," he says. "You want Clarke back?"

"I think we're good. Bye, Clarke!"

"She says bye," he tells Clarke, who's just been sitting next to him on the couch, listening with a fond smile on her face.

"Bye, Maya."

"Everyone says bye," he reports. "Good luck with Jasper." 

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

He disconnects the call and thinks, for a second, about changing the subject. It's not like it's a big deal that Clarke's never had anyone go down on her. It's not as if she seems upset about it, and if she's not upset about it, he shouldn't be either.

But, well--she's definitely missing out.

"Seriously, never?" he asks.

"You're acting like I have this incredibly active sex life," Clarke points out. "It's not like anyone's ever said, _hey, you should let me go down on you_ and I told them not to. It was just pretty easy to do other stuff. No one ever offered and I never made it a point to ask."

"Yeah, but--why not?"

"Someone's tongue inside me just seems--weird. Like, what's their tongue doing in me?"

"So--fingers, dicks, vibrators, dildos. All of those can go inside you, but you draw the line at tongues?"

"Okay, you're overstating it a little. I'm not drawing a hard line against it, just--it's not a big turn on for me. I don't think it sounds very appealing."

He'd like to say he really puts some thought into it, weighs the pros and cons, thinks through all the implications of hooking up with his _roommate_ , who is bright and brilliant and gorgeous and already his favorite person in a way that means it is probably unwise to get any more attached to her.

But, really, he's too indignant to really put much by way of coherent thought into it. Clarke thinks oral _doesn't sound appealing_ , and she's clearly missing out.

So he nudges her with his elbow. "Hey, you should let me go down on you."

She laughs, but it's not the kind of laugh that really means something is _funny_ , more just one of those laughs that comes from not having any other response. "What?"

He shrugs. "I'm just saying, it's worth a try, right? Not to brag, but--I got some good feedback about how to do it from this one girl, and since then I've gotten nothing but praise, so I think I'm pretty good."

This laugh _is_ amusement. "Do you have oral sex references, Bellamy?"

"I could probably find some if you want, I'm still Facebook friends with Gina, she'd probably--" He makes to get his phone, and she tugs his arm, shaking her head with another laugh.

"You know this isn't a problem, right? Not having had oral sex isn't damaging my life."

"Yeah, but--it's good. I'm really sure. And if it's not and everyone else is lying to me, I should find out before I torture any more girls with it, right? I know you'll tell me if it's secretly awful and no one wants to tell me. But I'm pretty sure that's not it."

She worries her lip, and he just watches her. He hadn't realized how much he wanted her to say yes, but--he _really_ does. "What would you do?" she finally asks. "If I said yes. What's the plan?"

He knows her well enough to read her tone, and when he shifts a little closer, she turns into him, encouraging. "Obviously, I'm not going to start right away," he says, letting his eyes sweep over her. She's wearing pajamas and her hair's in a messy bun and she's basically the most beautiful girl in the world, as far as he's concerned. "I guess it depends on what you want. I like to start with kissing. I like kissing. And then--" He wets his lips, practically tasting it. "Depends on where you like being touched, I guess. I want you to be so wet for me when I'm finally ready to--"

She cuts him off with firm kiss, sliding into his lap and pressing her mouth against his, hot and greedy, and he anchors his hands on her hips, keeping her there. Her lips are a little chapped, like always, because he has to _remind her_ to use chapstick when she's busy, but it's honestly kind of nice. It's so easy to tell whom he's kissing.

"So, you're okay with that plan?" he murmurs against her lips, letting his fingers slide under the hem of her shirt.

"You're really convincing," she says. 

He lifts her off his lap a little, just enough that he can push her onto her back on the couch, settling one thigh between her legs. When he licks her lips, she opens for him, whimpering a little as he takes full control. He lets his hand slide into her hair, tilting her head back so he can slide his mouth down her neck.

"You never told me where you like being touched."

"Everywhere," she says, and he laughs and nips her neck gently, not enough to mark, just to make her shiver and arch against his leg. "There's good."

"If you don't tell me anything else I'm just going to play with your breasts."

"Yeah?"

"I assume I'm not the first person to tell you that your breasts are fucking _perfect_."

"You haven't even seen them yet."

He slides his hands back under her shirt. "No, I haven't. Can I?"

She bites her lip, which is kind of stupidly hot at the best of times and fucking cataclysmic right now, pushes him up just enough that she can tug the shirt over her head. She's wearing a pink bra with some lacy patterning on it, which he only has a second to appreciate before she unhooks it and slides it off, and then, well-- _breasts_.

He leans down to press a kiss to the swell of the right one, the flesh warm and perfect under his lips.

"Absolutely perfect," he murmurs, and she laughs.

"Thanks. I was-- _oh_ ," she gasps, as he lets his mouth close around her nipple. He sucks it gently, swirls his tongue, around it, tries not to grind his dick too obviously against her. Just because it's fucking hot for him doesn't mean it's _about_ him. 

"See," he murmurs, grinning. "Imagine that, but--" He slides his hand down between her legs, under her pajamas but over her underwear, letting his fingers rub over her clit. "Here."

"Fuck, Bellamy."

"Yeah," he says, nipping her gently. "I'm going to fuck you. I can't believe no one's ever done this before, jesus. I'm going to make you feel so good."

"If I didn't know you, I'd say you were all talk," she teases, sliding her hand into his hair and tugging gently. "You should check if I'm wet enough. I feel wet enough."

He slides his mouth over to her left breast. "But I haven't even touched this one yet," he teases, and she groans.

"You don't have to be that thorough."

"I really do."

She's basically humping his leg by the time he decides to slide down her body, tugging her pajamas and underwear off with one firm tug. Laid out before him, naked and wet, she's absolutely _gorgeous_ , and he can't quite believe he actually gets to have sex with her.

There are probably going to be consequences to this, but he's having trouble caring right now. 

He gives her a gentle push, guiding her a little farther back so he has room to settle between her legs. He can smell her arousal, can practically taste her already, but he makes himself slide his fingers inside her first, trying not to come just from how easily they glide in. She's so fucking ready for him.

"Oh fuck," she breathes, and then he leans down, presses a kiss to her clit, and then flicks his tongue against it, savoring the way she gasps, "Oh _fuck_ ," again.

When he sucks, her whole body tightens around him, the first hot wave of arousal coming strong, and that's all he needs. He starts to go in earnest, stroking up inside her while he works her clit with his mouth, hot and hard and relentless. He wants her first orgasm to come quickly so he can draw the second one out, to get a feel for what she likes and how to make it better for her. 

As he hoped, it doesn't take long. She's gasping and arching against his fingers, whimpering in desperation for release. He keeps the pressure up on her clit and works his fingers, and the orgasm that crashes through her is hard and hot, but not nearly enough for him. 

He slows his fingers but doesn't stop as she comes down, presses random kisses against her thigh as her fingers gradually relax in his hair.

"Holy shit," she breathes.

"And you haven't even had my tongue inside you yet," he says.

She flops back on the couch, boneless. "You know, I'm just going to stop arguing and let you do whatever I want."

"That's all it took? I should have eaten you out last year."

"You really should have," she agrees, and there's something in her voice that makes his breath catch, but--he can ask about it later.

He's got work to do.

*

He comes humping the couch somewhere between her second and third orgasm. He's never eaten anyone out for so long, but Clarke keeps coming, making all these hot, desperate noises, and he doesn't know how to stop until she finally pushes him away after something like her fifth orgasm.

"I don't think it's physically possible for me to come again."

"That was the idea, yeah," he says. Part of him wants to kiss her, but he doesn't know if that's still allowed.

She solves the problem for him, twining her hand in his hair and pulling him back to her mouth. His face is a sticky mess, but she doesn't seem to mind, licking the taste of herself out of his mouth with slow, lazy ease. He settles back on top of her, tries not to get his hopes up too high, but--it was so _good_. They could be so good.

Her hand creeps down his chest. "What about you?"

He laughs, feeling himself flush a little. "Came in my jeans like a fifteen-year-old."

Thankfully, she looks delighted. "Really?"

"You're so fucking hot, Clarke," he murmurs. "I could get off just listening to you."

It feels like a little too much honesty, maybe, but she bites the corner of her mouth on her smile. "That's not that much fun for me. Not when you could get off fucking me instead."

"I could?"

"Don't get me wrong, the oral was amazing, I'm definitely into it, but--that's not all I want, Bellamy."

He catches her mouth for another kiss, warm and soft, settling in to enjoy it. "As long as I convinced you oral's fun."

"Completely," she says. "But I still don't want anyone else's tongue in me. I hope that's okay."

He laughs, tugs her in close. "Yeah. I was thinking the same thing."


	7. I’m fixing you *insert appliance/furniture/house thing hee* for you and now I’m sweaty and half naked and you’re drooling' sex

"This is the best day of my life."

Bellamy rolls his eyes, but when she offers him one of the iced coffees she brought, he steps out of the doorway to let her in. "Sorry about every other day of your life, then. Unless there's something else that happened that I don't know about."

"You need my help."

"I don't _need_ your help," he huffs. "I never had AC as a kid, I'm doing fine without it now."

Clarke gives him a significant once over, roughly half to make a point and half because he's shirtless in a pair of ratty basketball shorts and she'll always take the opportunity to check him out when she has an excuse."

"Remember global warming? Summers are getting hotter. Just because you didn't need AC when you were a kid--"

That gets him laughing. "Wow. I can't believe you just used climate change to try to convince me to let you fix my air conditioner. That's honestly inspirational."

"Seriously, why _wouldn't_ you let me help? You've been failing to fix it for a week, you've bought like three fans and your apartment is still sweltering--even if you don't think I can do it, what's it going to hurt at this point?"

His shoulders slump all at once, and Clarke really _does_ need this air conditioning thing resolved, because she absolutely does not need to be able to see the muscles shift under his skin when he moves. It's not helpful.

"It's not that I don't think you can do it," he says. "But you really don't have to."

"Luckily, I don't think I have to. I'm volunteering. You can pay me in pizza and weird documentaries on Netflix."

His mouth tugs into a small smile. "That sounds like a pretty good deal to me."

"Me too. Where's your tool box?"

Clarke will admit it _is_ surprising that she has the first clue about how to fix a broken air conditioner. Manual labor tends to not be her thing, and ordinarily she'd tell Bellamy to just suck it up and hire someone, or give in and ask Raven to do it. Which would probably be the best option anyway, except that asking Raven to fix basic electronics is always _risky_. Clarke asked if she could take a look at her microwave once and she probably now has the most powerful microwave in the world, but it can only be operated using detailed instructions from a manual Raven hand-wrote on the blank pages of one of Clarke's high-school sketchpads.

If Raven fixed Bellamy's AC, he'd probably freeze to death because he didn't know how to turn it down.

But Clarke lived in a shitty house for three years from senior year of college and through the first years of working life with a bunch of sketchy weirdos and a landlord who was literally in prison, so she learned to do a surprising number of household repairs by herself, in the interest of saving money and not having to actually try to interact with Dante. And most of those things are things Bellamy can also do on his own, because he considers calling in professional help to be both quitting and a waste of money. 

But his AC defeated him, so here they are.

He's doing his best to keep the living room cool, all the windows open and two fans going, but they're in the middle of a heat wave, which is the whole _problem_ , and Clarke's sweaty and sticky almost before she's even started with the repairs.

Bellamy tries to help, of course. He gets her water and hangs out, doing most of the heavy lifting when things need moving and asking questions about what went wrong and why so he can try to fix the damn thing himself next time.

"Or I'll fix it so well it never breaks again," she teases, and he snorts.

"You're good, but I think this thing is older than you are. You're not a miracle worker."

"Have a little faith, Bellamy." She finishes her water and he immediately takes the glass to go refill it, which is sweet, but--she's still basically miserable. He lives on the sixth floor of his building, and the sun is falling on her even through his closed curtains, and her t-shirt is practically glued to her skin.

That, at least, is easy to resolve, and she peels it off. There's a dry patch somewhere on the side, and she wipes her face on that and casts it aside. It's not a big deal, really; she's wearing a sports bra, and she looks about like she would if she was out for a run, except that her shorts are khakis. 

And she does feel instantly better. That's not nothing.

"I went with Gatorade this time, you probably need--uh."

Clarke glances over at Bellamy, who's frozen in the doorway with a glass in his hand. She offers him a somewhat wry smile. "You're not wearing a shirt, I don't see why I should."

He laughs, and that gets him moving again, offering her the glass and sitting down next to her again. "You're right, that's unfair. Feel free to take off as many clothes as you want. I wouldn't want you to feel left out of the partial nudity."

She elbows him, sticky skin on sticky skin, which isn't a great idea, honestly. Not that her elbow is really an erogenous zone or anything, but--he's so _firm_.

"I think I'm good. Come on, I bet we can finish this up."

It takes another half an hour, and Clarke does have to call Raven for a consult when everything looks fine and it's _still_ spluttering, but as far as she's concerned any repair job that involves only one assist from Raven is a rousing success. They get it back in the window and blowing, and Bellamy manages to remember to turn off the fans and close the window before flopped down next to her on the floor with a blissful sigh.

"Okay, you were right. I really needed this AC fixed. I never want to live without air conditioning again."

"It's okay to admit you wouldn't have really thrived in ancient Rome. No one is judging you."

He snorts. "You're always judging me. And apparently my real problem is global warming, so--"

She kicks his ankle, and he kicks back. "See if I ever fix your AC again."

"Well, you taught me how to do it myself, so now I'm set for a lifetime. I don't need you."

"Friendship over," she agrees.

"Seriously, thanks. This is a huge improvement to my life."

"You can buy me pizza when we're ready to move again."

"So, like, next year?"

"Exactly," she says, but it's not entirely true. She's still overheated and the AC hasn't made a huge difference in the overall temperature of the apartment yet, but lying directly in front of it is rapidly cooling the sweat on her skin, and she's starting to get kind of cold.

It should be a relief, but really it's just yet another kind of uncomfortable. Summer really is the worst.

She pushes herself up, shivering a little, and Bellamy must notice the movement, because he opens his eyes, frowning.

"I did a really good job. Now all the sweat is--"

The words die in her mouth, because Bellamy is checking her out. Not overtly, he's never been that guy, but she can see the way his eyes keep darting down, and she realizes that, in addition to being mostly naked and sweaty and uncomfortable, her nipples are hard and peaking through the fabric of her sports bra, and Bellamy is clearly _distracted_.

She rolls her shoulders and then stretches, deliberate, feeling her whole body run hot in a different and much more pleasant way when he inhales sharply.

When she smirks, he flushes, but doesn't move or look away. "Sorry," he says, not sounding it. "I was trying to be subtle."

"So was I," she says, and before she can lose her nerve, she cups her breast in her hand, flicking the firm point of one nipple through the fabric. "But that seems like kind of a waste."

He pushes himself up to a sitting position, and she can see the bob of his throat as he swallows hard. "Yeah?"

She slides her hand into his hair, damp with cooling sweat but still thick and soft under her fingers. "Why do you think I wanted to fix your AC so much? I really can't deal with seeing you half naked _every time I visit_."

"If you're trying to get me to be less naked when you visit, you're really not doing a good job," he teases, turning his head so he can press his lips against the inside of her wrist, soft and sweet and still enough to make her shiver.

He probably doesn't just want to check her out.

"More naked," she says, and tugs his mouth to hers.

Clarke's thought about kissing Bellamy a lot, but she tends to skip over this moment, the very beginning, because she'd never figured out how to start kissing him before. If she had, she would have already been doing it. 

But that means she wasn't really prepared for the first sweetness of it, of the relief of _doing it_ following immediately by the even greater relief of his smiling against her mouth, cradling her jaw with his hand and kissing back, no hesitation, no doubt.

And then they get to the part she _has_ thought about, which is basically just making out like horny teenagers. It's easy to forget everything else, to just get lost in the press of his lips, the slide of his tongue, the way he can't settle his hand, torn between cupping her face and carding through her hair and wrapping around the back of her neck.

But the AC really is fucking with her internal temperature, and she ends up pulling away, shivering and laughing softly.

Bellamy bumps his nose against hers, laughing himself. "That wasn't a good kind of shivering, huh?"

"How is the sweat _not_ freezing on your skin?"

"It is, I've just got better things to do." But he takes her hand and tugs her up, directly into his arms. He seems to be unwilling to let go of her, now that he knows she doesn't mind his touching her, and she has trouble minding. She wouldn't mind spending the next week tucked into his side. "I bet the shower's safe," he offers.

"Safe how?"

He kisses her neck. "We won't die of heat stroke and we can clean off while we're at it."

"Is that what we're calling it?" she asks, angling her head so he can kiss lower.

"Yeah, I was going to finger you too," he says. "For good measure."

"What do I get to do to you?"

"Fuck, Clarke, whatever you want."

She bites her lip on her grin. "Shower's a good place to start."

He grins, gives her one more kiss and then tugs her out of the living room. The apartment gets hotter and stickier the farther they get from the AC unit, but Clarke is hoping that by the time they're done hooking up in the shower, its good influence will have spread. And the bathroom itself is cooler, dark and tiled and fairly isolated.

"God, I'm so fucking glad you did something," Bellamy says, watching her with eager eyes as she undoes the button on her shorts. "I was going out of my mind."

"For how long?"

He laughs. "Like three years. But I meant--you were looking hot enough before you took off your fucking shirt."

"I am very hot," she teases, and he rolls his eyes.

"You know what I meant."

"You like them sweaty and swearing?"

"Honestly, yeah." His smile is a little embarrassed. "Sweaty and swearing and you."

"That too," she says, and hooks her fingers in the band of his shorts to pull them down and off. The bulging was unmistakable, so it's not a surprise to discover that he's going commando and hard on top of that, but still. It's a lot to take in.

"See something you like, Clarke?" he teases, but his voice is pitched all low and hot and all she can do is shiver again.

"I changed my mind." She strips off her own bra and underwear and tugs him in, letting her back hit the door. "We can clean up after you fuck me."

He takes her mouth for another kiss, one big hand coming up to grope her breast. "Yeah?"

"You don't want to?"

He laughs, scrapes his teeth against her neck. "I want to, yeah. But I still want to finger you first. Get you ready for me."

His other hand nudges her legs apart, and she parts them instantly. She's already wet, of course, but in a fairly passive way, less desperate need than vague awareness.

At the first touch of his fingers, it's like she bursts into flames. She's always loved his hands, has thought more than once about them mapping every inch of her skin, about them sliding inside her, and she's suddenly so glad he insisted on this. Despite her desperation to have his dick in her, the few swift strokes of his fingers against her clit before he slides them down to play with her entrance are perfect.

"Fuck," he says, mouth open against her neck. "You're so wet."

"I love your hands," she tells him, because he deserves to know.

"Not just my hands, right?"

She tugs him up to kiss him. He deserves to know this too. "Not just your hands."

"Cool." His fingers push up into her and she gasps and whimpers. "Might as well get you really sweaty before we clean off," he adds, and bites her shoulder.

The angle is a little awkward, but it feels good enough that Clarke doesn't actually care how quickly she comes. Just having him pressed up against her, his dick hot and hard on her thigh, his fingers stroking inside her, trying to find the perfect angle, the perfect spot--she could do this for hours.

But then he finds exactly the right spot, the right rhythm and pace, and she's coming apart on his fingers in under a minute, gasping as orgasm floods through her.

His fingers slow and stop as her climax does, and he slides them out once the last aftershocks roll through, leaning down to kiss her again instead.

"Still want me to fuck you?"

Her laugh is shaky. "Was that supposed to make me stop?"

"Definitely not. I think I've got condoms in here."

He finds them under the counter, grabs one and then comes back for more kissing. Apparently he can't get enough of her mouth, and she can't say she minds in the least.

But she _does_ want to get fucked, so she's the one to finally pull back and take the condom out of his hand.

"Good?"

"Yeah." But he does kiss her again. "Seriously, Clarke. I'm so fucking in love with you."

"Me too," she says. "So you should definitely fuck me."

He slides the condom on and lines up, getting one of her legs wrapped around him. This isn't her favorite position on a practical level, but there's something viscerally hot about it, the urgency, the idea that getting to a bed would just take too long.

And then he's inside her, and it doesn't have to be the best position, because he feels so fucking good. He gives it a second for her to adjust, which she appreciates, because there's a lot of him, but all she wants is a second, and then she rolls her hips and they're off, Bellamy fucking her hard and fast, his mouth attached to her shoulder in a way she knows means she's not going to be able to wear tank tops in public for a few days.

It's more than worth it.

It's even worth it when she hits her head on the door when she comes, and Bellamy laughs and moves one hand from supporting her to behind her head to protect from any further impact. But then he's focused again, pumping his hips hard and fast as his own orgasm builds.

It's not quite enough to get her off again, but it's hot and fast and perfect, and he slumps against her, panting, for a long moment.

She kisses his sweaty curls. "That didn't really cool me down much."

"Yeah, me neither," he says. "But the shower will." He kisses her. "And then pizza."

"And your room will probably be cool enough for sex by the time we're ready for bed," she says, innocent, and he laughs and slides out of her, getting the condom disposed of before he takes her hand to tug her to the shower.

"I think there's no way it'll be hot enough to stop us having sex in there," he teases. "But shower first."

"And pizza."

"And pizza."

It's not until they're done in the shower and stretched out on the couch, watching Netflix in the finally pleasant living room, that something occurs to her, and she nudges his ankle with her foot.

"What?" he asks.

"I was right." He tilts his head, and she lets her smile widen. "This might actually be the best day of my life."

His laugh is bright, and his lips are warm. "I never knew you liked AC repair so much." 

"My new favorite thing," she says, and settles in against his side. It's still a little warm for it, but she'll live.

"Yeah," he agrees. "Mine too."


	8. “we’re texting for the first time in forever and i told you about some stupid thing i did and sent a sarcastic ‘you must really miss me, huh’ and you just replied ‘yes’ and i think my heart just broke” au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying to do a couple quick fics under 1k tonight, friends!

**Me** : Okay so I assume you've blocked my number  
And probably never want to talk to me again  
Which I get  
I don't blame you  
But assuming you're getting these (I don't actually know how it works when a number is blocked?? Does it tell me??) I think you're going to enjoy this  
So I was cleaning  
Which I know is already a shock  
And I actually moved my couch for the first time ever  
And I found so much stuff  
Like, everything I ever lost that I told you I would never find again  
It was all behind the couch  
There was a bra there  
Probably fifteen bucks in small change  
One of your t-shirts

**Bellamy** : I'm half-expecting there was a portal to a fantasy universe too

Clarke nearly drops the phone when the message pops up. She really hadn't expected _any_ response, had been sure he'd just ignore her, even if he hadn't blocked her number. He'd always teased her about how someday, she was going to find a weird animal living inside her ottoman or something, so when she found the bizarre trove of shit behind her couch, he was the only one she wanted to tell.

Honestly, he's the only one she wants to tell about most things. Three months after their breakup, she's realized that it was several steps past a mistake, that what felt like a logical, mutual breakup was really her getting cold feet and Bellamy not fighting it, going along because that's how Bellamy is. He'd never seemed confident in their relationship, and Clarke thought it was cold feet for him too. That neither of them being sure was a bad sign.

Now she thinks she lost something good, maybe even something _amazing_ , but she can't convince herself she can get it back. It felt irreparable, right up until now.

**Me** : I was waiting for it  
But no  
Just dusty garbage and decaying clothing  
Also ants  
A gross number of ants  
I bet you really miss this

The sarcasm is easy, second-nature, the kind of thing she's said to him a thousand times, and she doesn't think anything of it. The space behind her couch is nothing but bugs, dust,a and death. Bellamy's probably gagging right now, thinking how--

**Bellamy** : Yeah  
I really do

This time she _does_ drop the phone, has to scramble to pick it up again. There's no more from him, just those four words. Not that she's complaining, exactly. Tone is impossible to get from text messages, but--this is _Bellamy_. He wouldn't be sending that unless he meant it. It's not a joke.

He's been texting back promptly, almost instantly, which means he's on his phone right now. He might be waiting for her response. He's probably nervous, worried he overstepped.

It's no trouble at all, finding his number; he's still in her favorite contacts, three months later. It's not like anyone else is real competition.

His voice is the same as always when he picks up, rough and warm, perfectly familiar and giving nothing away. "Hey."

"Hi." She wets her lips, trying to come up with something, and finally settles on, "You didn't block my number."

"It seemed kind of stupid. If you were going to call me, I thought it would be for a good reason. I didn't want to miss out."

"And now you know the area behind my couch was just as bad as you thought it was."

"Yeah, thanks for the update. It kept me up at night."

They lapse into awkward silence, and Clarke worries her lip, wondering what she's supposed to say. 

"I miss you too," she settles on, and she hears his shaky exhale of breath.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. God, Bellamy, of course, I was--"

"Clarke." 

She stops instantly, braces herself for the misinterpretation, for his telling her that she's wrong, that he didn't mean it like that. That he was joking, the same as she was.

"I don't really want to do this over the phone," is what he says, though, and Clarke finds herself grinning.

"You want to come see everything I found behind the couch?" she asks, and his own laugh sounds just as relieved as hers.

"I'd love to, yeah."


	9. “you’re famous and just got asked if you were ever in love this should be good– WAIT WHAT” au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> under 2k close enough don't look at me in the face

Bellamy would like to say he doesn't care that his ex-girlfriend is famous. It's not really a big deal, after all. Her fame came long after they'd stopped dating, high-school sweethearts who broke up in the natural way when they went off to different colleges. They kept in touch for a few years, saw each other on breaks and over summer vacations, but then his mother died and his sister went to live with his grandmother, and he started going home to a new state for breaks, and two years after that, Octavia told him Clarke was a singer.

So now he knows that his ex-girlfriend is still beautiful, still bright and just a little too serious and not great at being a celebrity, and if he still knew her for any reason _except_ that she was famous, he'd probably call her up.

But it's the fame thing, so instead he just keeps track of her as best he can without feeling like a creep. He buys her album, which is amazing, doesn't actually follow any of her social media, but instead checks her official Twitter, which she absolutely does not run, and keeps track of all her singles and public appearances. Which is, he has on good authority, hilarious, because he's generally the least musically aware person on the planet, and now he is an expert on exactly one pop-culture figure.

"You should absolutely call her," his sister tells him. "Like, come on. It's not like you're some random creepy fan."

"Yeah, I'm a specific creepy fan. That makes it so much better."

"You guys _dated_ ," she points out, not unreasonably. "Not that I want to think about this, but I assume you've seen her naked."

"I don't think _I've seen you naked_ is a great way to start a conversation with a celebrity, O. It just makes them think you're threatening to release a sex tape. Which I don't have," he adds, quickly. "Don't worry. Just--seriously, it would be weird. I probably don't even have her number any more."

"I'm just saying, actually talking to her would probably be less creepy than what you're doing now."

"Thanks. That makes me feel so much better."

Then again, given he's spending his Sunday afternoon waiting for a stream of Clarke answering questions at some music festival in New York State, she might have a point. He's already pretty creepy. Just talking to her would probably be an improvement.

Actual interviews with Clarke are pretty rare, but she's got a couple Q&As set up while she's at the festival, and he's looking forward to just--seeing her talk. Finding out if the first girl he ever loved is still in there. And, okay, maybe if she is, he'll call her up.

Like basically every livestream he's ever watched, it starts off with technical difficulties, so by the time it's working, the session has already started. Clarke is sitting on stage with a moderator, looking a little uncomfortable, but not in a way anyone other than him would notice, he doesn't think. She's always dealt with stress with a confident front, which is probably a good trait for a celebrity.

"I just started singing in college," she says. "Which is pretty late, but I never felt like I had time before that. I tried out for an a capella group with my roommate, they said I was good, and it went from there." She smiles. "Which I know sounds terrible. Easiest rise to fame ever! There was a lot of hard work and luck in there, but--that's how I found out it was an option, and that I wanted it. Just random chance."

"Next question," says the moderator.

"Yeah, Dan, I'm from Massachusetts."

"Cool, me too," says Clarke.

"Yeah, I wanted to ask about that. Do you ever come home?"

"Sometimes. Most of my friends moved away, and so did my parents, so I don't usually go to my home town, but I always love getting a chance to see Boston."

"What's the most stereotypical Masshole thing about you?"

She grins. "Dunkin Donuts addiction, definitely. My manager always wants to get _good_ coffee and I'm sitting there with my extra-large iced Dunkies. It makes her want to cry. Thanks for the question. Next?"

"Hi, I'm Ally!" says a girl. She looks maybe twelve, at the oldest. "My friend says you don't have a boyfriend or a girlfriend right now, but--have you ever been in _love_? Because you write the _best_ love songs."

Clarke is smiling, fond, and Bellamy can't help a smile of his own. The kid is cute, and so _hopeful_. 

"Yeah, I've been in love," Clarke says. "I'm not saying you have to be in love to write a good love song, but--not to be a total cliche, there was this guy in high school. My first boyfriend."

Suddenly, it's not funny. Or, not _ha ha_ funny. More _the girl I never totally got over is going to discuss our relationship in front of a bunch of her fans_ funny. An entirely uncharted kind of funny.

"What was he like?"

"He was awesome. My best friend. I always wanted to try to make it work with him again, but--we fell out of touch. It sucks, but it happens. And I'm glad we had the time together that we did." She wets her lips, looks down on her smile. "Anyway, yeah. Next question?"

Bellamy only half-hears the rest, his brain working overtime, unable to stop knowing that Clarke is talking about _him_. Writing songs about him, even.

"Are your love songs still about him?" a girl asks, right toward the end. "The guy from high school."

"A lot of them aren't about anyone," she says. "Just the idea of love." She bites her lip. "But yeah. Some of them are about him."

He doesn't really think about it, doesn't weigh the pros and the cons. He just thinks--Clarke is still into him. Clarke hasn't gotten over him. And if he's not over her either, it just feels stupid, to not at least mention it.

And, really. New York isn't that far away.

*

Her set the next day is great, even if he's so far back he can barely see her. And she has another Q&A right after, so he leaves early to get a good place in line, feeling only a little anxious. He could just try to call, but, well. He'd honestly like to see her face when she sees him.

Besides, he doesn't really want to wait.

Clarke comes out to applause, and she smiles, a little tired around the eyes, and waves. He looks away when she looks over the crowd, hiding under the brim of his hat, and when she says, "Hey, thanks so much for coming, guys! I hope you enjoyed the show!" he sees no indication she knows he's here.

The crowd cheers, and she smiles again.

"Okay," says the moderator. "Please keep questions short and appropriate, guys."

The people in front of him ask a few standard questions, songwriting process, when her next album is coming, favorite artists, and he gets more and more nervous the closer he gets to the front of the line. She still doesn't seem to have seen him, and he could just bail. Pretend he was never here and talk to her later. He could probably get to her. There isn't a ton of security.

But then he's at the mic, and she's taking a drink of water, and he just leans in and says, "Hi, uh, I'm Bellamy, I'm from Northampton," and she chokes. "Big fan," he adds, when she meets his eye.

Her voice is a little weak, but she's smiling. "Hi, Bellamy." And then, when he fails to say anything either, she grins. "Did you have a question?"

He clears his throat. "Yeah, uh--my favorite song of yours is "Orion's Belt." I was wondering if you could tell me about the inspiration."

"That's really your favorite?" she asks, sounding a little offended, and he laughs.

"Sorry, am I supposed to have a _different_ favorite? They're all good. It's not a competition."

"Thanks, that means a lot." She seems to remember they're in front of a crowd. "Um, yeah. Of course that can be your favorite. It's about my first date with my high school boyfriend. He took me out to teach me the constellations. He was kind of a giant dork, but--it's one of my favorite memories."

"Sounds like a nice night," he says. "Thanks."

"Thanks for coming, Bellamy," she says, and he catches her looking at him through the rest of the Q&A, quick glances to where he's sitting. When she's done, he goes up to the stage with a bunch of other fans, waits as they get autographs and selfies.

When she's done, she jumps down off the stage and hugs him, warm and close.

"Seriously, is that actually your favorite song, or did you just want me to have to admit it was about you?"

"It can't be both?" He buries his face in her hair, breathing her in, and she holds on just as tight. "Hi, Clarke."

"Hi, Bellamy. Good to see you."

"Yeah," he says. "You too."


	10. “you just liked a three year old photo of mine on instagram i didn’t even know you had an account” au

_**bls_bblake** liked your post._

Clarke stares at the notification, nestled in among her others, ordinary and unremarkable, and tells herself that it's not what she thinks. It's a completely innocuous username that could be anyone. It's not going to be _Bellamy_. There's no way it's Bellamy. She hasn't even talked to him since they broke up, and he wouldn't possibly be liking her Instagram posts. 

Although, if he was going to like a picture, that one makes sense. It's almost four years old, from back when they were dating, and it's of one of his books, a few passages of Latin that she particularly liked and got a nice, artistic shot of. If he somehow found it, he probably _would_ like it. 

The picture on the **bls_bblake** account is just a mug with a map of the world on it, which is not really helpful in terms of his identity. Part of her feels stupid for even clicking through to the actual account; after all, she runs an aesthetic blog and gets lots of random likes from accounts she's never seen before. That doesn't mean any of them are her ex-boyfriend.

But there it is, in stark black and white, right below his username: _**Bellamy Blake** History teacher at Boston Latin School. Follow for more history content._

And there he is in the second row of pictures too, posing in a graveyard she thinks is somewhere on the Freedom Trail. She's clicking into the picture before she's fully processed it, eyes roving greedily over his face. It's only been three years, so he doesn't look _that_ different, but she can see how he's aged, grown into his looks, grown more comfortable with himself.

_**bls_bblake** Hope everyone is spending their summer doing the important things, like visiting one of the many historic sites in the city. This stuff is on the AP exam, guys!_

Clarke and Bellamy broke up for one very simple reason: he got into grad school in Connecticut, and she got into grad school in California, and they decided that trying to maintain a long distance relationship while they were starting on new jobs and new careers was just not at all feasible. It was probably the right decision, and Clarke wouldn't say she _regretted_ it, but she wishes she hadn't taken the cold-turkey approach she did to the breakup.They could have stayed in touch. But he's never been a social media person, wasn't on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram back then, and every time she thought about texting him, she talked herself out of it. She told herself that if she missed him as much as she did, it wouldn't be safe, to just _talk_ to him. She'd get over him faster if they just never interacted again.

Given the erratic beat of her heart and the way her hand is trembling a little on her phone, it didn't work at all.

Clarke checks back to her own account, giving it a critical once-over. This isn't her personal account, and she doesn't appear in any of the pictures. Bellamy knew it existed, back in the day, but she's not convinced he'd remember the username, if he ever knew it.

Still, if he looked at the profile, it's right there: _Follow my personal account @clarkegriffin_. He might know it's her, or he might have just found the picture doing some weird search for Latin books, and he liked it without doing any follow-up on the account that posted it.

He wouldn't have liked it, right? If he knew it was her, he would have said something.

If he goes to her personal account, he'll see that she's in Boston too. Not that that means anything. But--she _is_. And he is. And she could be talking to him.

She switches accounts to her personal blog and navigates her way back to Bellamy's profile, looking it over _again_ before she bites the bullet and opens up the message box.

**clarkegriffin** : Did you know photographilia was my aesthetic side blog, or just a lucky coincidence?  
Also, hi, Bellamy

She's not sure what exact response she's hoping for, really, but it feels weirder to _not_ acknowledge him. She knows now, she can't _not_ know, and it's going to bother her, if she doesn't say anything.

She's planning to turn off her phone and do something else, but before she can, his icon pops up to indicate he's typing, and she's frozen again, rooted to the spot as she waits for the response.

It's been _three years_. It shouldn't be like this.

**bls_bblake** : I thought that book looked really familiar  
Hi, Clarke  
I was just looking for some dorky stuff to make my kids stop following me, I had no idea it was you

**clarkegriffin** : Have you considered not giving your students your Instagram username?  
And also not having an Instagram that actually seems to be centered around being a teacher  
These are good steps you can take so students won't follow you

**bls_bblake** : I should have known I should come to you for the inside tips on Instagram  
It's this thing my principal is into for some reason  
She thinks that if the teachers have a social media presence we'll be more approachable  
And I thought I'd do better on Instagram than Twitter

**clarkegriffin** : Does that really work?

**bls_bblake** : Apparently  
A bunch of them follow me  
And sometimes they send me homework questions on here  
Which is really inconvenient, but I guess it's better than them not asking

**clarkegriffin** : Well, let me know if you need any other pictures of Latin books  
I think I have a few more

**bls_bblake** : Thanks  
How are you doing?  
Still in California?

**clarkegriffin** : Cambridge, actually  
So I guess we're neighbors

**bls_bblake** : Wait, really?  
That's one hell of a coincidence

He's not wrong. They were both living in DC when they dated, Clarke recently out of college and Bellamy just finishing up himself, having started late because he was taking care of his sister, and they'd been together for two years when it ended. Clarke applied for schools back in California because her dad was sick and she wanted to be close to home, and Bellamy had just gone wherever would give him the best financial aid. Clarke had thought about staying on the west coast, but she found she actually preferred it out here, and once she was done with school and her dad was in better health, she wanted to come back.

She'd always assumed he'd go back to DC, when she thought about it. It hadn't occurred to her that he might be in New England. That he might be _here_.

**clarkegriffin** : Yeah, I couldn't believe it  
How long?

**bls_bblake** : A year  
I started right after I finished grad school  
You must have just graduated up in May, right?  
And then moved here?

**clarkegriffin** : I'm working at the MFA, yeah  
Started in June, so I'm finally starting to feel like I'm settling in

**bls_bblake** : Cool, that's good  
I like it here

**clarkegriffin** : Yeah, me too

She worries her lip, trying to figure out where to go from here. Can she just ask if he wants to hang out? It doesn't feel like it should be such a huge deal. They were friends, they liked each other even before the dating thing. And then--well, he's still the best relationship she's ever had, and nothing ever went _wrong_. They just couldn't make it work living apart. And now they're living together again.

**clarkegriffin** : I haven't gotten to much of the historical stuff yet  
Any suggestions?

**bls_bblake** : I was going to check out the Tea Party Museum this weekend  
I haven't been before  
It would probably be more fun with company

**clarkegriffin** : I work Tuesday to Saturday, but I'm free on Sunday  
If that works for you

**bls_bblake** : Yeah  
We could grab lunch first, maybe? Catch up?

**clarkegriffin** : It's a date

And, to her profound relief, it really, definitely is.


	11. “i thought you hated me but i just accidentally sent you a booty text and you accepted and i am seriously considering it” au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated M for sexual content!

Bellamy's first mistake was not deleting Clarke's number from his phone. That was what Miller told him to do, and he knew Miller was _right_ , but there was just something so _final_ about deleting her phone number. And then if she ever got in touch with him, he wouldn't even know about it.

His second mistake was, therefore, letting Miller change Clarke's name in his phone from _Clarke_ to _DO NOT CALL THIS NUMBER_ , which was a good idea in theory, but hasn't really helped in a lot of ways. He's never been tempted to call Clarke, has always known that was a shitty idea, so when he sees the number, all it does is remind him that he wishes he _could_ call her, and that he hadn't fucked it up so badly.

The third mistake is deciding to text Echo to see if she wants to hook up, because, really, he doesn't _want_ to hook up with her again, he's just kind of drunk and kind of mopey and in the mood to make some bad life choices. He's not even really expecting Echo to take him up on it, but her shooting him down seems like the perfect ending to his mope fest of a night.

Which makes his fourth mistake not checking that he's sending the message to the _right person_. It's just that _DO NOT CALL THIS NUMBER_ and _Echo_ happen to be right next to each other alphabetically, and when he's scrolling through only half paying attention while he plays video games, well. It's a mistake anyone could make.

And he probably wouldn't even have known he made it, if she didn't text back.

 **Me** : Hey, you busy right now?  
Want to come over?

 **DO NOT CALL THIS NUMBER** : Are you booty-texting me?

He nearly drops the phone, staring in shock and horror at the notification as it lights up his display. There's no good response to her question, of course; he can't tell his ex-(semi)girlfriend, whom he's still not over, that he sent her a booty-text meant for another girl. He could try to say he just wants to _talk_ , or something equally inane, but he doesn't really think she'd buy it.

And then she adds, _Because honestly, I really need to get laid._

It's something like deja vu, seeing that, because that was how they started. That was honestly all he thought they'd ever _be_ , him and Clarke, just a quick fuck, nothing but one night of uncoordinated fumbling and then they'd be over. But they kept calling each other, kept having the actual best sex of Bellamy's life, and then suddenly he realized he liked her, might even be in love with her, right in the middle of a fight about how he was tired of feeling like her dirty little secret.

If he'd just told her then, he might have been able to salvage it, but instead the fight had escalated, they'd both said shitty things and refused to back down, and when she asked what he fucking _wanted_ from her, he said _nothing_ , and it was over.

But apparently the sex is still good, in Clarke's opinion.

He rubs his jaw, staring down at the texts. He needs to say something, and he's honestly not sure what. If you'd asked him this morning, he would have said that he knew better than to sleep with Clarke.

He just also would have said that she never wanted to see him again. It's easy to say you wouldn't sleep with someone when you think there's no chance it will ever happen.

 **Me** : Same, yeah  
You know where I live

 **DO NOT CALL THIS NUMBER** : I do know where you live  
See you in like twenty minutes?

He is, not shockingly, an anxious mess of a person as he waits for her to show up. His first step is to change her name in his phone back to _Clarke_ , because it would be very awkward if she somehow saw the other name. Then he does the dishes, tidies up the living room, makes sure his sheets are clean and his laundry is all in the hamper.

He doesn't text Miller. He doesn't text Clarke. He does sudoku on his phone and tries not to think about anything, and especially tries not to think about whether or not he's capable of resuming a casual sexual relationship with Clarke. He's doing it, so--he must be. There's no other option.

It's closer to thirty minutes when she does arrive, looking devastatingly gorgeous in a shimmering blue dress, with her hair swept up in en elaborate twist. She must have just come from one of her mother's events, which makes sense. About 90% of the time when she initiated their hookups, it was to blow off steam after talking to too many rich people.

It still leaves his mouth dry, just the sight of her. She is, and always has been, fucking _gorgeous_.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi. Bad night?"

"Drinking alone while middle-schoolers beat me at _Overwatch_."

"I thought that was a good night for you," she says, with a small smile.

"Yeah, but it always makes me want to get laid to remind myself I can do _something_ better than they can." He wets his lips, looking her up and down again. "Party with your mom?"

"Yup. And she had a date for me."

She says it carefully, and he knows exactly why. That was what they argued about before, Clarke's mother's insistence about finding her a significant other, his sudden irritation that she was acting like she didn't _have_ one, like the sex they'd been having hadn't been bleeding into mornings wrapped up together or stretched out on his couch or hers, warm and companionable and everything he wanted. 

This was such a bad idea.

"Man or woman?" he asks.

"Man, this time. Boring," she adds, with a shrug of one shoulder. "Like always. I told her she just needed to stop, but--" She shakes her head. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. That's not why I'm here."

"No?"

She steps right into his space, hands trailing up his chest. She smells like she always has, clean and warm, and he finds he wants to hold her more than fuck her, to pull her into his arms and ask if there's some way they can recover this. If he can ever just get her _back_.

But she wants to get laid, so he tilts her chin up and kisses her instead.

He knows that some people won't kiss hookups, but that's always seemed like a waste to him. He _likes_ kissing, and if he's going to have random sex, he figures he might as well have random sex he's going to enjoy.

Clarke's fingers tense against the fabric of his t-shirt for a second, but only for a second. Then she melts into him, kissing back with the ease he remembers.

They always fit so well together.

She's the one who starts pushing him toward the bedroom, almost at once, and he catches her arms so he can steady her, guiding her back without breaking the kiss more than is absolutely necessary.

"What do you want?" he murmurs.

"You," she says, so quick it makes his heart skip. The addition of, "Inside me," is late enough it feels like another sentence, like she's adding it on because she realized just him was too much.

He really hopes that's what happened.

"Yeah?" He slides his hands up her sides, finding the zipper on the dress. "Where do you want that to happen?"

Her eyes rove over him, greedy. He's wearing jeans and an old t-shirt and his glasses, nothing special, but she still wets her lips, anticipation written all over her face, and he has to kiss her again. He can't not.

"Bed is good," she says, and when he pulls her zipper drown, the dress practically melts off her, pooling on the floor and leaving her in nothing but a strapless bra and nude shorts.

"Fuck, Clarke," he says, and this kiss is greedy, hot and wet as his fingers remap her skin.

"That's why you wanted me here, right?" she asks, and there's just enough of a catch to her voice that he stops, pulls back. She's watching him with something like defiance in her eyes, like she's daring him to contradict her.

"I always want you here," he admits, and this time she's kissing him, wild and hot, and he falls into bed with her on top of him, her hands pushing under his shirt. He obligingly lets her tug it off, but then he catches her, tempers the next kiss into something sweet. "Seriously, Clarke, I fucked up, I should have told you--"

"You can tell me after you fuck me," she tells him, grinning. "I promise I'll still want to hear, I just--"

He grins back, undoes his jeans and kicks them off with his boxers. "You want to get laid."

"I really want to get laid," she agrees, laughing, and suddenly it's just _fun_ , all his stress evaporating when he sees the way she can't stop smiling.

"Okay, yeah," he agrees. "Let's get laid."

She gets out of her bra and he gets distracted with her breasts, like always, because they're perfect and she makes the best fucking noises when he touches them. But she tugs him back up before he's even settled in, catching his mouth again.

"All I've been thinking about for months is you fucking me again," she tells him, and he files that away to deal with later too.

"Not playing with your breasts?"

" _Bellamy_ ," she says, and he slides his fingers between her legs, groaning when he finds her already wet and eager.

"Jesus," he mutters.

"I had a while to think about it coming over here." She pushes back against him. " _Please_."

He presses a quick kiss to her lips, rolls over to grab a condom and some lube, gets himself slick before he presses in. It's the best kind of familiar, the kind he's never going to get tired of, just Clarke, all around him, gasping his name as her fingers dig into his back.

She gets off for the first time with his mouth on her shoulder, sucking a mark there that he hopes will stay for days. And then she pushes him onto his back and rides him until they're both on the edge, and they don't come quite at the same time, but it's close enough, as far as he's concerned.

Clarke rolls off him and flops onto her back, breathless with giddy laughter. He rolls over so he can pull her into his arms, burying his face in her hair.

Her lips press against his chest. "Hi."

"Hi."

"So, why did you actually text me?" He tenses, and she laughs. "I know you weren't actually trying to get laid."

"You really want to ruin the afterglow?" he asks. "We could bask a little longer."

"Do you want to be my boyfriend?" she asks.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, I'm--I should have just said that before but--"

"But we're both stubborn dicks," she says. "I know. I should have said something too. But--we said it now." She pokes his ribs. "So tell me."

"It was for someone else."

To his unspeakable relief, she _laughs_. "Wow. So, you were trying to hook up with someone, just not me?"

"If I knew you were an option, I would have been trying to hook up with you." He noses her hair. "I was pretty sure she was going to turn me down, I just figured I should put in the effort. Instead of just pining over my ex."

"Am I really your ex if we broke up in a fight about labels?"

"If we broke up, you're my ex." His arms tighten around her. "If we get back together, you're not."

"Girlfriend," she says. "Girlfriend sounds a lot better than ex."

He lets out a long breath, closes his eyes. He hasn't felt this good in months. "Yeah. Let's go with that."


End file.
